


Those Who Can, part 2

by Sihaya Black (beledibabe)



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-12-20
Updated: 1998-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-02 08:30:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 43,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beledibabe/pseuds/Sihaya%20Black
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim and Blair learn something about Jim's past, and run headlong into danger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Those Who Can, part 2

**Author's Note:**

> Notes are contained in Part 1.

Continued from part 1

 

 

~~~~

We drove home in silence.

Jim parked and almost jumped out of the truck, heading inside.  By the time I got upstairs, he'd gone in and closed the door behind him.

I put down my backpack and was searching for my key when the door suddenly opened. Jim stepped out, his face pale, like one of those Kabuki masks, and grabbed my arm, jerking me inside.

"Hey, watch it-"

He clapped his hand over my mouth and kicked the door closed behind us.  I didn't fight him.  Why bother? I'd lose anyway.  I just stood there until he decided to take his hand away.

He blinked at me a couple of times, and looked at the hand that had been over my mouth. It shook. Then he pointed to my room and tapped his nose once.

The knot in my chest grew to the size of a grapefruit.

I nodded that I understood and took a step toward my room to check if anything was out of place.  He caught my arm and I stopped, glancing at him.  He frowned, his eyes fixed on my face, like he was studying me.  His frown deepened, and he cupped his hand around my chin.  His mouth opened, and I thought he was going to say something, but instead he squeezed his eyes shut and released me.

I rubbed my chin and watched him until he opened his eyes and jerked his head toward my bedroom.  It didn't take long to check, but nothing seemed disturbed.  I shook my head and he leaned over my desk, scenting lightly along the row of journals.  He pointed to three, the most recent ones, the ones detailing Jim's increasing control over his senses.

God _damn_ them.

I wanted to punch something.  I wanted to drag Jim's buff butt somewhere safe and lock him up until we'd figured out what was going on.  I wanted to...

Shit. Sandburg, you're an idiot.

I should've expected a repeat visit.  Dammit, if I'd have _thought_ about it, I could have created a fake journal or two, misled them, put out a false scent.  They were obviously interested in information about Jim's senses.  Maybe I could've made it seem that Jim's abilities didn't pan out, or only worked intermittently.  _Anything_ to make Jim less interesting or potentially useful to whatever sick plan they had.

Great idea, but way too late to be any use.  I could've kicked myself.  I had a chance to _do_ something to get these guys off our backs, and I blew it big time.  I should just stick to academic departmental in-fighting.  At least there I'd only be hazarding my career, not Jim's life.

A tap on my forehead made me jump.  Jim was peering at me with his lips pursed and that funny little crease between his eyebrows that he gets when he's worried.  I shrugged and shook my head. What could I say?  Sorry I screwed up, Jim.  Sorry I left a paper trail a mile wide for someone to follow.  Sorry I'm not sharp enough to mislead them.  Sorry I'm not a better friend.

He jerked his head toward the other room and gestured for me to go first.  He shut my bedroom doors firmly after him, like he could keep all the bad things at bay with a few sticks of wood and some panes of glass, and walked into the kitchen.

"Want a beer, Chief?"

"Nah."  I looked around blankly.  My room was off-limits - no way did I want to hang there for the evening.  I hated to stay in; I couldn't go out.  I itched to _do_ something - I had a million and one things waiting, and right then, I didn't give a damn about any of them.  I realized I was still wearing my coat, so I took it off and hung it up.

"Thought I'd make myself an omelet," Jim said.  "Want one?"

I grabbed my backpack and pulled out a book.  I should at least try to do something useful.  "I'm not hungry."

As I settled on the couch, I could hear Jim puttering around in the kitchen behind me.  I opened the book and read a page.  Well, my eyes passed over the print on the paper, but I don't think I understood a single word.  I tried again, but it might as well have been written in Cherokee.  So I closed it and leaned back, not thinking, not doing much of anything except displacing air.

A little later a tap on my shoulder roused me.  I slewed around - Jim held out a mug.

"I made some coffee.  Thought you'd like a cup."

My brain must've been only firing on two cylinders, 'cause it took me a minute to figure out that I was supposed to take the mug.  I stared down at it, the mug almost scalding in my hands.  I'd gotten chilled, I guess, and it felt good.

Jim sat down at the other end of the couch.

"Anything you'd like to do?" he asked.

I shook my head.  "Nah.  But if you want to go to the gym or something, I can bring a book."  I made the offer out of habit.  I didn't really want to go anywhere.

He shrugged.  "Not in the mood.  Listen, Chief, I know this case has been taking up a lot of your time.  You need to hit the library or your office?  I could run you over to the university and catch up on some reading while you work."

I blinked and looked over at Jim.  He wasn't in his usual boneless sprawl on the couch; instead, he was leaning forward, his clasped hands between his knees, staring at the floor.

It was an apology of sorts and I appreciated that. Sometimes, though, I wish the guy could just say 'I'm sorry.'  But that's Jim Ellison for you - he'll dance completely around the perimeter of a subject before he can go forward another step.  I didn't know that's what I was getting into when I signed on for this gig, but I've learned to accept Jim and his limitations.

But it still hurt like hell, and no amount of apologizing would help.

"It wouldn't do any good," I said. "I'm too wasted." He turned his head, looking at me solemnly.  I raised the mug in a sort of toast and took a drink.  "Thanks.  The coffee's good."

Jim ventured a tiny smile and relaxed back into the couch.  He turned on the TV and cruised for a while.  I sat and stared at the images on the screen, but I couldn't tell you what we watched.

A couple of hours later, my stomach growled.  Jim snorted in surprise.

"Want me to make you that omelet now?"

I hauled my tired ass from the cushions and wandered into the kitchen, yawning. "Nah.  I'm gonna make a sandwich or something."

I could feel Jim's eyes on my back, but I ignored them as I foraged in the fridge.  He kept looking at me as I made my sandwich, ate it and cleaned up.  It was kind of unnerving.  I was just going to call him on it when he got up and grabbed the phone, punching in the numbers like he was poking a fire with a stick.

He waited a few seconds, then his expression softened.

"Hi.  It's Jim.  How's Neil?"

He pinched his lips together and frowned.

"Yeah.  I understand.  I wondered if we could come down and visit tomorrow.  Do you think he's up to that?"

Damn.  Whatever she said hit him hard - it took him a minute to smooth away the pain that flashed across his face.  His eyes skated over me, then he turned away, and all I could see were his stiff shoulders, his board-straight spine, tension radiating out of him.

"Sure.  Three would be fine. See you then."

He hung up, but didn't look at me.

"Do you mind going, Chief?  If you're busy, I can go alone."

I didn't say anything until he slowly turned to face me.

"That's up to you, Jim.  Are you going to _talk_ to them?"

He blinked, then swallowed hard.  A quick nod.

"Yeah."  His voice was rough.  "We all need to talk."

"Okay, then.  I'll be there."

He nodded and reached out, his hand cupping around my shoulder.  He gave a squeeze and ran his fingers down to my elbow.

I shivered, but I didn't feel cold.

He pulled away and grabbed the reel of fishing line from the closet.  He shot me a strange little sideways glance, and started to thread it over the windows.  I watched him for a minute, then went to help.

When we finished, Jim turned off the TV and yawned.  "I don't know about you, Chief, but I'm dropping on my feet.  I'm going to bed."  He disappeared into the bathroom.

I sat down and tried to read again, with no more success than before.  At about my fifth yawn, I put the book away and changed into my tee-shirt and sweatpants.  I might as well go to bed, too.

I hit the bathroom when Jim finished, and when I came out I wasn't surprised to see that he'd spread out the futon and was lying quietly on his neatly-arranged sheets and blankets, his eyes closed, his face still.  Then I saw what he did to _my_ side.

The pillowcases were half off the pillows, the top sheet was wadded up at the foot, the bottom sheet was wrinkled and barely on the futon, and the blankets were bunched up in a pile under the pillows.  It looked like the aftermath of a successful orgy.

I opened my mouth to ream him another one, then snapped it shut when I saw his face.  The bastard was trying not to smile.

"Thanks for making my side of the bed, man," I whispered as I knelt beside the futon, trying to smooth things out enough to sleep on.  "That was really nice of you."

He twisted around and peered at me.  I gave him one of my 'innocent delight' special smiles.  "Sleep well, Jim."

I lay down on my back, shifting around until the sheets and blankets were more or less where they were supposed to be.  Jim sighed and turned on his side, facing me.

His hand slowly crept out from beneath the covers and stopped exactly half-way between us.  He sighed again.

I stared at his hand.  Oh, man, what am I going to do with you?

Suddenly, for one split second, I _knew_ what I wanted to do with him.  The knowledge made me dizzy, even though I was lying down.  Then I slammed that door shut, locked and bolted it, and threw the key as far as possible.

No.

I turned away from Jim.  There was a tiny sound behind me, like... I dunno, like a word bitten back and swallowed whole.

I waited, but everything was still and silent.  I couldn't even hear Jim breathing.

Aw, hell.

I slid back a couple of inches, until I felt a localized spot of warmth on my back.  Another half-inch, and I bumped into his hand.  He let out his breath in a whoosh, and his fingers gently stroked my back until I relaxed, too.

The thought that I could get used to this drifted through my mind before I fell asleep.

~~~~

Y'know, they say 'ignorance is bliss,' and I'm beginning to believe it.  I'd woken up next to, or even wrapped around, Jim the past two mornings.  It had been kinda freaky, but nice.  And that was it, I thought.

This morning I woke up with Jim's arm wrapped tightly around my chest, his steady, even breaths hot on my neck, and the rest of him pressed so firmly against my back it was like he was trying to mold us into one being.  God, it felt good.  Actually, it felt better than good - it felt incredible, like I'd finally found the thing I hadn't known I was missing.  My cock stirred, and I could feel his branding a scorching line between the cheeks of my ass.

I wanted him.  I wanted to kiss him until his knees went weak, touch every single millimeter of his body, bury my tongue and my cock deep inside him...

Oh, shit.

I'm in love with the jerk.

It was a good thing Jim was holding on to me so tightly, 'cause my heart started beating so fast I think it might have pounded a hole in my chest and bounced across the floor.

I took a couple of controlled breaths and the panic subsided a bit.

What the hell was I supposed to do now?  I mean, it wasn't like I could just turn over, plant a big one on Jim's perfect lips, and break the news.  I knew he wouldn't freak on me, but _I'd_ sure feel uncomfortable about the situation.  Believe me, I've had experience with this kind of thing.  There's nothing quite like having a serious case of lust for someone who doesn't return the feeling to put a crimp in a good friendship.

Nope, I didn't need to go through _that_ again.

So I wiggled out of Jim's grasp and sat up.  He snorted and stirred, opening one eye to peer at me.  Damn, the man looked good, even with his hair standing up on end and crease marks from the pillow on his cheek.  I couldn't help but smile.

"Morning, Jim."

"Yeah."  He rolled onto his back and grunted, wincing.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine," he said, hauling himself to his feet, rubbing the small of his back, and then disappeared into the bathroom.  I gathered up the sheets and folded them, and dragged the futon back into my bedroom.

Jim reappeared, looking less rumpled and slightly damp.  "Want some scrambled eggs this morning?" he offered quietly.

"You're kidding, man.  You had an omelet last night.  You've got to watch your cholesterol."

"Okay." He shrugged.  "How about a bagel?"

"Sounds good." Jim smiled like I'd given him an unexpected present. I got up and headed toward the bathroom.  "I'll be out in a few minutes."

I showered and shaved, wondering how the hell I'd gotten myself into this mess.  Why couldn't I fall for someone female, and available, and _interested_ in me?  But then again, no one has ever cared about _me_ as much as Jim does, even if he tries hard not to show it.  On the other hand, caring about someone isn't the same as _loving_ them, especially when the someone is your male partner.

I frowned into the mirror.  Face it, Sandburg. You're hosed on this one.

It was going to be a long day.  Hell, it was going to be a long _life_.

~~~~

Dr. Harding was as good as her word, and by ten in the morning we had a composite of the man she had seen with Wallace.  Like she had said, he looked a lot like Rutger Hauer - fair, with broad cheekbones and surprisingly delicate lips.  We compared it to the bartender's composite, and they were pretty close.  At least this gave us something to work with.

Jim and I sent out the pictures to various law enforcement agencies here and in Europe, hoping that someone could ID him.  There were no guarantees, but it was worth a try. A few minutes later we got a call that Wallace's car had been found abandoned near a vacant warehouse on the outskirts of the city.  Jim checked his watch.

"If we leave now, we can check out the car before driving down to Seattle." He reached for my coat, then paused, his hand stretched out, and looked at me.  "Is that gonna work for you, Chief?"

I nodded and took my coat when he handed it to me, surprised that he'd asked.  I mean, I _liked_ the fact that he'd asked, but it normally never occurred to Jim that I might need to be somewhere else.  He didn't object when I told him my schedule - at least, not usually - but I was thankful that I didn't have any teaching duties this semester.  I already had enough on my plate without having to worry about classes and papers and grades.

We found the car without difficulty; it was pretty easy to spot the forensics van and patrol cars from the main road.  When I got out, I shoved my hands into my coat pockets and hunched my shoulders against the cold, following Jim over to the car.

Jim had a good look around the outside of the car, and then spent a long time crawling around inside.  From the way he wrinkled his nose and glanced at me, I figured he smelled British Sterling again.  He came up with two blond hairs to add to the collection that forensics had accumulated, but nothing else, and after bagging them, stripped off his gloves, stretching his arms above his head with a grimace.

"What's the matter, Jim?" I lowered my voice.  "Is the futon bothering your back?"

He shook his head and started toward the truck.  "Nah.  Just getting stiff in my old age."

"Yeah, right."  I climbed into the truck and looked at Jim as he settled himself.  He looked a little tired, but there was a sparkle in his eye, a kind of... I dunno, jauntiness in his attitude that made me feel good.  We were back on track again after yesterday's blow-up.

He glanced at me.  "What are you smirking at?"

"Nothing."  He gave me a disbelieving look and snorted.  I smacked his arm. "Hey, I can smirk about nothing.  I mean, you do it all the time."

"I do not smirk about nothing, Sandburg." He started the truck and pulled away.

"You do too.  I've seen you.  You look at me and smirk, and when I ask you what you're smirking at, you say 'nothing.'  So don't give me that crap, man."

"It's not crap. And it's not a smirk." He paused and cleared his throat.  "It's a smile."

"Sure," I chuckled.  "I know the difference between a smirk and a smile, and it's definitely a smirk."

"It is _not_." He gripped the wheel tighter.  "It's a smile.  I _always_ smile at you-"  His mouth snapped shut and he blushed.

"I'm sorry," I said slowly, not sure what was going on here.  "I didn't mean to upset you."

"You didn't."  His voice was tight, and he didn't look at me.

"I was just teasing.  I thought..."  But I didn't have any idea what I thought, so I shut up and turned to look out the side window.  The trees beside the road passed by in a blur.  For some reason, it was hard to breathe.

"Chief?"

"Yeah?" I continued to look out the window.

"I'm..."  His voice faded briefly. "I'm glad you're here."

Something in the tone of his voice made me turn and face him.  He blinked at me once, twice, and swallowed hard.  My chest ached, and I had to suck in a shaky breath before I could speak.

"I'm your partner, Jim.  If you need me, I'm there."

He nodded, his eyes focused on the road ahead.  "Okay."  I could practically see the tension drain from his jaw and shoulders.

We'd gone another ten miles when he sighed and glanced at me.  "It's not going to be easy this afternoon."

"I know.  Do you have any ideas about what you're going to say?"

"Not yet," he said, shaking his head slowly.  "I'll have to play it by ear.  Just help me carry the ball in whatever direction I decide to take, okay?"

"Sure.  I'll do my best."

"I know.  You always do."

My breath caught somewhere in the middle of my chest at his words.  Damn.  I needed to get a grip - I couldn't get freaked by every little compliment.  But oh, god, I couldn't help it.

"Are we-" I coughed and tried again.  "Are we getting together with Rafe and H after we get back tonight?"

"Not unless there's some big break in the case," Jim said.  "We need to check in with Simon when we get back, but I told Rafe and H that we'd meet them for breakfast tomorrow.  We should have heard back from some of the departments about the composites by then.  If we're lucky, someone will ID him.  If not," he shrugged, "then we do a door to door."

"I _hate_ those," I muttered.

Jim chuckled.  "Police work is not all an adrenaline rush, Chief."

"Believe me, I know that, man." I glared at him.  "You've proved it to me over and over."

We discussed the case during the rest of the drive.  Not that we said much, but Jim seemed to welcome the conversation.  I know he wasn't looking forward to talking to Neil and Cynthia, and I was happy to help distract him.

It was almost three when we parked in the small lot beside the old building with the sign out front: The St. Francis Center.  It wasn't a big building; it only had two stories, built of plain red brick, but it was neat and the garden was obviously well cared for.  Jim paused for a second outside the door, the muscle in his jaw working overtime, his eyes narrowed, like he was expecting a blow.  I put my hand on the middle of his back and rubbed gently.  He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and pulled open the door.

The Center was as neat on the inside as it was on the outside, without the clinical feel of a hospital or nursing home.  It didn't smell like a hospital, either, and I was glad for Jim's sake.  There was a reception desk in the corner of the lobby, and we headed over to it. We signed in and the receptionist called to let Neil and Cynthia know we were on our way.  She directed us to the second floor.

"Jim." Cynthia came down the hall toward us, her hands outstretched, relief in her voice.  She nodded at me.  "Blair, thanks for coming."

"How's he doing?" asked Jim softly, taking Cynthia's hands in his. 

Lifting her chin and straightening her shoulders, as if she were settling a heavy burden, she looked at him solemnly.  "He's dying."

"I'm sorry."  Jim paused a moment, his fingers moving restlessly around her hands.  "I'd like to talk with both of you.  Is he up to it?"

She tilted her head and looked at him intently.  "He's anxious to see you.  There are things..."  Her eyes fell and she gently pulled her hands away.

Jim shot me a look that seemed to be composed equally of terror, sorrow and pleading before turning and following Cynthia.  I was beside him in a second, my shoulder brushing his arm as we walked down the hall.  When we reached the door Cynthia had entered, he didn't hesitate, but plowed ahead.

I think that was one of the bravest things I've ever seen him do.

I stood back as he walked over to the bed.  Neil looked bad.  His skin was pale - not just white, but with a waxy look I didn't like.  He'd lost weight, too.  And strength.  He lifted up his hand and it shook like he had a palsy.

"Neil."  Jim's voice was so soft I almost couldn't hear it. He took Neil's hand in his and stared at their clasped hands.

"Thanks for coming," Neil said.  His voice was still strong, strangely enough.  "And you, too, Blair."

"Our pleasure, Neil," I said, but I don't think he heard me.  He was looking at Jim - well, staring at him, really intently, as if he could somehow look clear through him.

"We're very grateful," Cynthia murmured as she took my arm. She glanced over at Neil and Jim.  "More than you could ever know."  We sat down on the little sofa across from the bed and I looked around the room.  It was a lot nicer than the hospital room, more like someone's bedroom or sitting room.  The chairs were comfortable, and the room looked out on a landscaped courtyard.  The medical equipment was there, but it wasn't obtrusive.

"How are you doing?" I asked. Dark circles smudged her eyes, and her shoulders slumped as she sat beside me. She looked exhausted, but she gave me a wry grin.

"Better, now that he's here."  She jerked her head in Jim's direction, and her grin softened into a fond smile as she watched him talking quietly with Neil.  The smile held for a long minute, then faded slowly.  "I just wish..."  Then she shook her head and stood, squaring her shoulders again.

"Neil, don't tire yourself."  With a practiced hand and Jim's help, she settled Neil more comfortably against the pillows.  "Why don't we get started?"

"Started?"  Jim poured Neil a glass of water and held it as he sipped.  Neil sat back with a grimace and waved the rest of the water away.

"Bring those chairs over beside the bed," he ordered, and Jim jumped to comply.  When they were placed to Neil's satisfaction, he glanced at me.  "Close the door, then come here and sit beside Jim."  I didn't argue.

Jim didn't look at me as I sat down.  His eyes were fixed on Neil.

Neil held out his hand to Cynthia, who was perched on the side of the bed.  She took it and rested their clasped hands on her lap.

"This may sound strange," Neil began, "but I have a reason for asking.  Do either of you have any reason to suspect that you're being watched?"

I twisted 'round to face Jim.  I couldn't help it - Neil's question took me completely by surprise.  Jim's eyes narrowed a little, but that was his only reaction.  He didn't look at me at all.

"Why do you want to know?" Jim asked finally.  He never raised his voice, but it sounded harsh, like he'd been screaming.

Neil and Cynthia traded a glance, and she nodded slightly.  With a sigh, Neil turned back to us.

"It's a long story. Please hear me out before you make any judgments."  He paused, waiting for Jim's quick nod.  I didn't like the look on Jim's face. He was already closing down, preparing for bad news, and leaving me out in the cold. God, I hate it when he does that.

Neil licked his lips and leaned back against the pillows.  "It all started a long time ago, when Cynthia and I were in college.  It was right after World War Two, after we'd all seen the aftermath of the atom bomb and the death and destruction brought on by nationalistic stupidity and political expediency.  We joined a group of other scientists, who-"

"The SNWO," Jim interrupted quietly.  I heard the bitterness in his voice, and wondered if Neil and Cynthia did.

"How do you-"

"You can't know about-"

They shut up when Jim stood and walked over to the window, looking out into the courtyard.  "The murder case we're working on.  The name came up in a background investigation."

"That can't be," said Cynthia, her face pale.  "You can't know about it."

"I do," shrugged Jim.

"Who..." ventured Cynthia.  "Whose murder are you investigating?"

"Dr. Earl Wallace."

The news hit them both hard - their joined hands shook. I thought for a minute that I'd have to call the doctor for Neil, but he seemed to marshal his strength and turned to me.

"How did he die?  Was it a robbery?"

"No."  I glanced over at Jim.  He was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed, watching us silently.

"Tell us," Neil pleaded.  "It's important."

I didn't want to say the words.  Hell, I didn't even want to think about what had happened.  But the way they looked at me...  "He was garroted, then disemboweled, and then cut into pieces."

Cynthia paled and looked like she was going to faint, while Neil closed his eyes and raised their clasped hands to his lips.  Without a word, Jim moved beside them, his arm going around Cynthia's shoulders.  After a few minutes, she took a deep, shaky breath and pulled away from Jim.

"I'm all right."

He watched her for a minute, then sat down next to me.  "Did you know Wallace?" Jim asked quietly.

"We were acquaintances."  She shot Neil a terrified look.  "His death was meant as a... a message to the rest of us."

Jim leaned forward.  "What kind of message?"

"A warning," Neil said.  "From the eugenicists - a group that's trying to seize control of the SNWO.  Opposition will not be tolerated."

"Jim!" I interrupted, grabbing his arm. "What if they're listening now?"

He shrugged and shook his head.  "There's no one out in the courtyard, Chief.  And no one suspicious in the rooms facing it.  I checked."

"Okay."  I released his arm. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay.  We're all spooked."  He turned back to a frowning Neil.  "Opposition?  To what?"

"To them," Cynthia said quickly.  "To the eugenicists.  Originally, Wallace had been a member of their group, but he broke with them when... Well, when he couldn't stomach certain of their methods.  He was collecting information about their activities in order to expose them to the Central Committee and he flouted their rules about..."  She paused and looked at Neil.  "He flouted their rules."

"And this was reason enough to kill him and his companion?"

Cynthia's eyes widened.  "They killed his wife?"

"No," Jim shook his head.  "They killed his male lover."

With a soft gasp, she squeezed her eyes shut.  "I never thought they'd actually follow through with their threats..."

"They knew about Wallace's activities?"

"Not until recently, or they would have killed him earlier. Earl knew he was a dead man if they ever found out what he was doing.  But to kill his lover..." She paused.  "This group is extremely homophobic.  They would see Wallace's actions in leaving his wife and taking a lover as an additional betrayal.  That's why he was hung, drawn and quartered - he was given a traitor's death."

"Jim," Neil said urgently.  "These people are dangerous.  You have to disappear.  Now.  Don't tell anyone where you're going. Just go.  We have some savings - you can have whatever we've got." He turned to me, his face growing paler as he spoke.  "And you, Blair, have to cover for him.  Once Jim's gone, make some excuse for him at work.  Pretend that he's sick, or took an unexpected vacation, or-"

"Why?"  Jim sounded like he already knew the answer.  I felt queasy - this was like my worst nightmare come to life.

"Because they're interested in you!  They've watched you - _we've_ watched you since you were nine-"  His voice cut off abruptly.

"You've watched me since I was nine?" Jim whispered.  His lips were bloodless.  "But I didn't know you when I was nine."

"No, but you knew Carl Haydash."

"Bud?"

Neil nodded.  "Somehow the Committee heard about your abilities.  Carl was supposed to assess them and report back, but unfortunately he was killed, and we were told to replace him."

Jim looked like an alabaster statue - cold and lifeless.  Oh god, Jim.  This news cut him deep, and my heart ached for him. To find out that the man he had viewed as a father in all but name was following orders to befriend him, to watch him...  No wonder Jim shut down.  I rubbed his shoulder, almost surprised to feel warmth under my fingers rather than cold stone.  He shivered a little, but that was all.

"We don't have time for this," Cynthia said, releasing Neil's hand and leaning toward Jim.  "You must _go_, Jim.  They're interested in you, they want-"

"If they're so interested in Jim, why did they watch him, watch _us_?  Why didn't they just kidnap him?"  My hand kept moving over Jim's shoulder and down his arm, as much as a comfort for me as for him.

"They didn't know if they wanted him. They didn't know the extent or reliability of his abilities, and were trying to find out.  They didn't want to kidnap Jim - a policeman - without being absolutely sure he was what they needed.  It was too dangerous, otherwise."  Neil rested his hand on Cynthia's shoulder.  "When we were first assigned to Jim, we were told to encourage Jim's scientific interests.  Occasionally we'd get a hint of what your senses could do, Jim, and we'd report any incidents.  But then the eugenicists gained control over the Committee, and they started certain projects-"

"We know about the breeding camps," I interrupted, anxious to hear this, but even more worried about how to keep Jim safe.  Neil looked startled, but nodded.

"We started to falsify our reports, suppressing any mention of anything _interesting_ about Jim, other than his intelligence.  We wanted the Committee to ignore him, to let Jim disappear into the woodwork.  The thought of Jim being used as a... breeder in such a project appalled us."  The thought didn't appall me - it terrified me.

"It worked for a while," said Cynthia.  "Until Jim returned from Peru.  They were asking questions again, trying to make some sense of the rumors that there was something unusual going on."  Her voice softened.  "That's why we ignored you when you got back, Jim.  We care about you. We were trying to keep you safe..."

Jim looked back at her blankly.  I could feel him shiver, little tremors that started to build.  I was out of my seat in a second, perched on the arm of his chair, and wrapped my arm around his shoulders.

"Hey, it's okay, Jim.  Don't worry.  We'll figure out what to do..."  He continued to shake and leaned into me, squeezing his eyes shut.  I wanted to pull him close and make him feel safe and protected - pretty funny, huh?  Me, wanting to protect Jim.  Well, I always want to protect Jim, but this time I really got a taste of what being a Blessed Protector felt like.  And as much as I hated the circumstances, I liked the feeling.

After a minute or two he stopped shaking and opened his eyes.  He pulled away, and I let my arm drop.  It was like someone had just peeled off a layer of my flesh.

"Do you..." he rasped, then coughed and tried again.  "Do you know who they would contract to do the murders?"

"No.  We know the eugenicists have contacts with a number of professional assassins, but we don't know who they are."

Jim nodded, then stood.  His face got so white I thought he was going to pass out, but he stood still for a minute, swaying slightly, then walked over to the door.

"Goodbye," was all he said as he left.

I glanced at Neil and Cynthia.  They looked shocked and frightened.

"Go after him," Neil whispered.  "Make him leave, hide..."

"I can't.  He won't go.  You should know that."

"Then keep him safe."

"I will..."  I ran after Jim.

~~~~

The engine was running when I got to the truck, and Jim took off as soon as I jumped in and closed the door.  He looked so fragile, like he had when Incacha died. I know that sounds silly; there isn't a fragile bone in Jim's body, but I wasn't talking about his bones.  Jim's biggest fear has always been that someone he trusts will betray him, and man, did he just get that fear confirmed.

"Jim, I'm sorry."

He ignored me, but his grip on the steering wheel tightened, and I could see the muscle jumping in his jaw. 

"If it's any consolation, man, I _know_ that they really care for you.  That's why they want to keep you safe."

"Not now, Chie-"  He blinked and swallowed hard.  "_Sandburg_."

"Why not now?"  I leaned over and rested my hand on his shoulder.  The muscles jerked under my fingers.  "We've got to do something, whether you like it or not.  Otherwise..."

He blinked again and the truck drifted halfway into the other lane before Jim swerved back with a grunt.

"Jim, you okay?"

Eyelids fluttering, he nodded his head.  His fingers kept clenching and unclenching on the wheel, and I could hear his labored, uneven breaths over the sound of the engine.

"You don't look too good."  I patted his shoulder and he shivered. "Hey, why don't you let me drive for a while?"

And then he suddenly slumped forward, his forehead banging on the wheel.  I grabbed the wheel and pushed him back, not even trying to be gentle.  His head thumped against the window, but I didn't have time to worry about it.  All I could do was to pop my seat belt, slide over and try to steer the truck to the shoulder without getting hit by the cars and trucks that passed us with blaring horns and screeching tires.  Thank god Jim's foot slipped off the gas when he passed out.  After what seemed like forever, but was probably only a couple of minutes, we finally came to a bumpy and shuddering stop along the side of the highway.

I slammed the gearshift into park, turned off the engine, and sat back, shaking like I was going through withdrawal.  It took a few minutes before I could trust my hands to be steady enough to check out Jim.

"Okay, man," I muttered, crawling onto my knees and slipping my fingers behind his head, "let's see how bad this is."  His eyelids were still fluttering, and he was mumbling something that I couldn't make out.  There wasn't any blood, and I didn't feel a knot on his head where he hit the window - I didn't think he'd hit it hard enough to injure himself, especially with that extra-thick Ellison skull he'd inherited from his father.

No, that wasn't fair.  I was just rattled and scared and taking it out on Jim, who hadn't done a damn thing to deserve this.  None of it.  Not being blessed, or cursed, with his senses; not living through hell in Covert Ops; not losing his men in Peru; and definitely not being betrayed by people he thought cared for him.

Well, he wasn't going to have to worry about that with _me_.  I gently pulled his head toward my chest.  God, his hair was soft - sleek and smooth, like the rest of him.  Resting my cheek against his head, I just held him for a while, letting both of us calm down after the adrenaline rush.

"How're you doing?" I checked his eyes - they looked glazed, but at least the pupils were the same size.  His hands quivered, and I could feel him shudder occasionally, like aftershocks from an earthquake.  "Let's get you away from that wheel," I said, trying to sound nonchalant and not really succeeding.  "I want to get home in one piece."

He mumbled again, but didn't fight me when I tugged him over to the passenger side and then climbed over him to sit behind the wheel.  It took a couple of minutes of deep breathing and conscious relaxation before I was ready to start the truck and pull out.

Okay. What are the facts? Jim has just suffered a total meltdown.  His senses have gone wacko.  But he's still in danger, and we've got a murderer to catch, and what the hell am I going to do about it?

I kept checking on Jim as I drove.  He had calmed a little and sat quietly, his eyes closed and his head propped in the corner, his arms wrapped tightly around his chest.

Ideas to get Jim out of this mess floated around my mind. Most were rejected, either immediately, or after a little thought, but one...  One kept popping up, insistent.  I liked it. I liked it _too_ much - it appealed to me more than it should have.  In fact, it was so appealing that I knew it was going to be hard not to get carried away...

Shit.  Be careful what you wish for, little boy, because you just might get it.  I don't know who first said that, but it was really appropriate right now.  My wishes and hopes would seem to come true, and that would probably wreck my friendship with Jim past all repair.

But I couldn't see an alternative, so I made my decision.  Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead.  If I'm gonna sink, I'm gonna do it spectacularly.

There was a truck stop four miles up the highway.  I pulled into the parking lot, killed the engine and turned to Jim.

"I've got to hit the can, Jim.  How about you?"

He kept his eyes closed and shook his head slightly.

"I won't be long."

I made sure the doors were locked and went inside.  There was a pay phone in the back, by the johns, and I quickly dialed Simon's number.

"Simon?  It's Blair.  Listen, some shit has come down and I need your help..."

~~~~

Jim was stirring restlessly by the time we got home.  He managed to unlock the door and practically fell out of the truck before I could run around to help him.

"Hold on, Jim!"  I shoved my shoulder against him to keep him from hitting the street.  "Just take it easy.  I'll help you."

"'M okay," he muttered. His hands clutched at my shoulders - I guess he was trying to push me away, but he was so weak that he ended up kneading, almost caressing, my muscles.

I swallowed hard and began to wonder what I'd gotten myself into, but quickly shook off those thoughts.  There wasn't time for self-indulgence, not with Jim's safety at stake.

"You've had a bad shock," I said calmly, snaking my left arm around his back and dragging his right arm over my shoulders. "You need to rest.  Now, c'mon, Jim.  Let's get inside."

We stumbled to the building, Jim trying hard to walk under his own steam, but every couple of steps he'd trip over his feet or the curb or something, and I'd end up supporting him for a few minutes.  We'd stand there, our arms wrapped around each other, and I'd stroke his back and murmur the usual sort of encouraging nonsense.  When he felt steady enough, we'd start out again. 

His arm stretched across my back and his hand rubbed my shoulder, creating a pool of warmth stirred by his fingers.  Little tendrils of heat curled down my arm and body at his touch.  It was hard to keep my mind on what I had to do with him stroking me like that...  Oh god, it felt-  Enough. I had a job to do.  But dammit, I'm human, too, so I reached up and slipped my fingers between his, then rubbed my cheek against the soft back of his hand.  It wasn't nirvana, but it was damned close.

Part one of my plan was now in progress.  I just hoped that the bastards were watching and listening to this.  Yeah, I know that sounds sick.  Here I was, _using_ Jim, even though it was to save him...  Guess Jim was right about me after all.  I shoved down the guilt and managed to get Jim through the door and into the elevator without stopping.

By the time we reached the apartment we were both panting and exhausted.  I lowered Jim onto the couch and got us some water, and then had to help him hold the glass because his hands were shaking so badly.

"How about some soup, Jim?" I asked, taking the glass.  His head fell back against the cushions and he squeezed his eyes shut.  "Everything's off the dials, isn't it?"

He nodded, his eyes still closed.  "Soup would be good, Chie-  Sandburg."  It was a whisper, but at least his speech wasn't slurred anymore.

"Jim, can you hear me?" I murmured on the way to the kitchen, just loud enough for him to hear easily if his senses were online.  He didn't respond.

Good.  That would make part of this job easier, at least for now.

I got some leftover soup out of the freezer.  Jim was big on not wasting food, and would freeze any leftovers over two days old.  I agreed on the not wasting bit, but didn't see anything wrong with leaving stuff for a couple more days before dumping it into the Tupperware and icing it.  Still, it was useful at times like this - homemade soup beat Campbell's any day.

When the soup was warm, but not hot enough to burn - I suspected that Jim couldn't tell the difference right now - I poured some into a big, thick mug and took it over to him.  He wrapped his fingers around the mug and tried on a smile for size.

"Thanks, Ch-"  He caught himself faster this time. I didn't know why he had difficulty calling me Chief - probably something to do with what Neil and Cynthia had told him this afternoon.  I'd ask him about it one day.  If I got the chance.

"No problem.  Here, let me help."  I sat on the arm of the couch and guided his shaky hands up to his mouth. He took a big swallow.

"'S good."

"Yeah, well, Naomi always said that chicken soup's good for what ails you, and I agree."

He grinned a little over the rim of the mug.  "Isn't she a vegetarian?"

I shrugged, and helped him take another sip.  "Yeah, but this doesn't count, because chicken soup isn't _food_.  It's a really powerful traditional folk cure-all, and as such, transcends considerations like vegetarianism."

Jim chuckled.  "Sounds like more Sandburg BS to me."

"That's right; mock the guy who saved your butt out on the highway when you took a swan dive into the steering wheel."  I tried to say it lightly and not show Jim just how much it had scared me, but I don't think it came out that way. 

With a frown, he carefully handed me the mug, then quickly rubbed my knee once.

"Sorry.  I just... I wanted to...  I couldn't _help_ it, Chief!" The shaking started again; first in his hands and head, then spread until he was shivering like he was freezing.

"Ahh, man," I murmured, putting the mug on the table and wrapping my arm around his shoulders.  "I know you couldn't."

"I shoulda... known," he stuttered a little, his teeth chattering.  "I coulda prevented..."  He pinched his lips together and shook his head.

"There's no way you could have known, Jim.  Or prevented any of this."  I held him as close as I dared.

"But-"

"No. _No_ _way_.  Now stop trying to shoulder the blame.  That's my job."

He snorted, but the shaking didn't stop or even slow down.  Squeezing his eyes closed, he whispered, "My father was right.  I _am_ a freak..."

"Don't!" I gave him a rough shake.  "Don't even _think_ that!  You're _not_ a freak, no _way_, man!"  I silently cursed William Ellison for his damnable cruelty.  What a fucking burden to land on a child.

Jim just sighed and leaned into my side.

"You want to lie down, Jim?  Maybe that'll help."

He nodded, but when I knelt to untie his shoes, he batted gently at my shoulder.

"Not here," he mumbled.  "Ups'airs..."

"Oh yeah, _right_," I said.  "I left my hoist back at the office, man, and I don't think you're going to be able to make those steps on your own, even with my help."

"Bullshi', San'burg..."  He pushed me away and struggled to his feet.  "I'm goin' to bed..."

I watched him stagger into the bathroom and slam the door behind him.

Stupid son-of-a...

So I leaned against the wall outside the bathroom door, listening for a thud or a crash or any sound that meant my pig-headed jerk of a roommate had taken a nose-dive into the toilet bowl.  Of all the people to fall in love with...

When he opened the door, he hitched himself against the jamb, crossed his arms and scowled at me.

"Don't need no damn _baby-sitter_," he growled, but when I opened my mouth to snap back, he grinned and shook his head.  "Who's the Blessed Protector now?"

I sighed.  Damn him, now I couldn't even be pissed off at him.

"C'mon.  Let's get you to bed."

It was a struggle, but we finally made it up the steps and I unceremoniously pushed him onto his bed.  He landed with a whoompf and immediately curled up on his side, shaking.  I got his shoes off, but figured he could manage the rest himself.

Okay, so I was a coward.  The thought of peeling off Jim's pants and shirt, exposing all that flesh...  Well, let's just say that the thought was _so_ appealing I knew it was a bad idea.

Besides, I had a phone call to make.

I got him covered and allowed myself one long, slow stroke over his shoulder, down his arm, ending with a light pat on his hip.  He quivered and blinked sleepily at me.

"Get some rest, Jim."

He nodded and closed his eyes, tucking one hand beneath his cheek.  I stood there for a second, resisting the urge to trace the little frown lines on his forehead with my fingertip and to kiss those blue eyes open again.

Sometimes being a Blessed Protector sucks.

Downstairs, I grabbed a glass of juice and the phone.  Time to put Part B of my plan into effect.

"Hi, Simon," I said when my call had gone through.  "Listen, I know we're supposed to meet with you this afternoon, but I'm afraid we can't."

"What's the problem now, Sandburg?"  Simon's voice held just the right note of exasperation.

"It's Jim." I lowered my voice and hoped to hell that they were listening to the wiretap.  "He's having a recurrence of that same old problem."

He sighed.  "Damn.  I thought you said it was getting better."

"It _is_, man!"  I let the silence hang for a while.  "Well, no, not really.  I mean, I really thought that when we became lovers it would help him maintain better control!"

"_Sand_burg, I'm getting _way_ too much information, here."  I smiled.  Perfect.  The man should have been an actor.

"Sorry."  I didn't bother to go for contrite.  "But it's not like it's a secret."

"Maybe not, but that doesn't mean I have to think about it.  Now," he continued, and his voice gentled, "how bad is Jim?"

I sobered.  "Pretty bad."  At least I could be truthful.  "All his senses are off line, and he's got the shakes.  I've tucked him into bed, and he'll sleep for a couple of hours."

"You sure you don't need some help?"

"Nah.  I'll keep an eye on him, but I think all he needs right now is some rest.  I'll sleep downstairs so he won't be disturbed..."

"_Sand_burg..." Simon growled a warning.  "Will he be well enough to continue the investigation?"

"I don't know yet.  I'll call you in the morning and let you know how he's doing, okay?"

"Right.  Oh, and Blair?  Take good care of him."

"Yeah," I swallowed hard, surprised at the lump that suddenly lodged in my throat.  "Only the best for Jim."

"Yeah, only the best," he repeated, then hung up.

I cradled the receiver and frowned at the wall.  That conversation hit a bit too close to home for comfort.  With a sigh, I padded into my room and got out my most recent journal.  It was time to add another entry - one that confessed my confusion and fear about Jim's increasing difficulty in controlling his senses.  Maybe if Mr. British Sterling reported that back to his superiors, they'd call him off.  After all, who would want a gay sentinel who had trouble controlling his senses?

Besides me, of course.

~~~~

It took me a long time to fall asleep.  Just as I'd start to drift off, I'd suddenly get this zing of electricity crackling through my body and a voice would scream in my head 'check Jim.' I'd sit bolt upright, heart pounding, fingers and toes tingling, sucking in air like a drowning man and then take off up the stairs to make sure Jim was okay.

And he'd be sleeping peacefully, practically in the same spot where I last left him.  The first time it happened, I tiptoed back downstairs and jittered around the living room for a while, wondering why I was behaving like an idiot.  By the fourth time, I'd check on Jim, give him a quick pat or kiss on the top of his head, and crawl back into bed, hoping I could doze for a while before it happened again.

When I finally fell asleep, it was one of those sleeps where you feel like you're exhausted from battling misty enemies and ghostly adversaries. Jim was being stalked, and I could _almost_ see the guy who was tracking him, but somehow I kept being distracted by these succubi all dressed up like Chopec warriors, who caressed and stroked me until I was groaning, and then they spurted these huge bloody wounds and collapsed on the floor.  "Jim's gonna get so pissed off at the blood," was all I could think of.  I couldn't find Jim, but then the phone rang, on and on, and I could hear him talking in the background, so things must be all right.  And then he turned into a wraith and wrapped himself around me and kissed me, light and dry, like old leaves.

By the time I pried an eye open to check the clock, it was eight thirty.  I rolled out of bed, groaning, and made my way up the stairs practically by touch.  It wasn't until I stood by the bed that I noticed what was wrong.

No Jim.

I think I jerked back the blankets and swept aside the pillows, like Jim was really going to be hiding in the folds somewhere.  Then I skidded down the steps.

Kitchen?  Empty.  Bathroom?  Empty.  Balcony?

Shit.  Where the hell is he?

I passed by the answering machine and noticed the light blinking, and a scrap of paper lying beside it in Jim's handwriting with an arrow pointing to the machine.  "Give this to Simon," it said, and below that - "_Don't_ come after me."

I hit the play button, panic already creeping down my back to settle into my gut.

The message started to play, then broke off as the receiver was picked up.  "'Lo."  Jim's voice, quiet, still a bit fuzzy from sleep.

"Detective Ellison?"  A new voice, dark and deep, with a faint accent.

"Yes."  I could hear Jim's caution.

"I'll say this once.  Listen carefully.  If you wish to spare your... _partner_ the same fate as Brett Paul, get in your vehicle alone and drive south on Route 24.  Proceed for three miles after the Griswold Garden Center, then park along the side of the road. Walk down the old logging trail until you see the stone 'X' in the path.  Wait for me there.  Do you understand?"

"Yes."  He didn't sound like the Jim I knew.  It was a new voice, hard and brittle.

"Good."

"How do I know you're not just some nut case who read about the murders in the newspaper and wants to play with the big boys?"

A wry chuckle.  "An excellent question.  However, there has been no connection drawn between Professor Wallace and Mr. Paul in the newspapers.  We both know that this was not true when they were alive."

"You could have known them, or heard rumors about their relationship from anyone."

"True."  There was a pause.  "I shall be blunt.  Meet me where I have requested, or I shall not be as kind to Mr. Sandburg as I was to Mr. Paul.  You know, it took Professor Wallace over half an hour to die, and he never stopped screaming."

Silence.  "Point taken.  I'll leave in five minutes."

The tape clicked off and rewound with a hiss.  I don't think I remembered to breathe as I listened to the tape, because I suddenly sucked in this huge lungful of air and realized that I was shaking.

Jim, you bastard, if you get yourself killed I'll never forgive you.

I threw on some clothes, grabbed the tape and note, and careened out of the loft.  I made it to the station in record time, but Simon wasn't there.  He was dancing attendance with the police chief at some meeting with the mayor, and wouldn't be available for a couple of hours.  Rafe and Brown were out, too, so I stuck the tape and note into a big envelope and scrawled "I'm following him," on the front.  I left it on Simon's chair, where he couldn't miss it when he got back.

It started to rain as I drove through the city and down Route 24. Big, fat drops splatted on the windshield and sprayed out in star-burst patterns.  A bright light strobed at the corner of my vision, and I felt like I was going to puke.  I passed the Garden Center almost without realizing it, and then had to double-back so that I could get the mileage right.  I didn't need to bother - Jim's truck was parked on the shoulder, half pulled onto the grass verge.

I parked behind it and got out, my knees quivering like hospital jello.  If there'd been anything in my stomach, it would have come up then.  I took a deep breath and steeled myself to check inside the truck. Empty.

The trail began right next to the truck.  Of course I followed it - what else was I supposed to do?  Stick around and wait?

Not possible.

Once I got away from the road, the forest was peaceful, almost beautiful.  It would've been fantastic if Jim had been walking beside me.  Anyhow, all I could hear was the rustle of rain on the trees and a soft sighing when the wind picked up.  The path was hard-packed - I couldn't see a trace of Jim.

The trail dipped and rounded a curve and I saw it - the stone 'X' on the path.  I stopped and checked out the forest and the path in front of me.  Nothing.  No sign of Jim.

The rain rolled down my face and I licked my lips. They tasted of sea water, but I didn't have time to think about why that was so - I had my sentinel to find.

~~~~

It was an hour later, maybe two, when Simon and the usual crowd appeared.  I'd discovered a rocky outcropping a couple of yards off the path and was sitting there, ten feet or so above the ground, protected from the drizzle by an overhang.  It was cold, though.  Bone-chilling, gut-clenching, numb-your-ass cold.  I had heard the cars fifteen minutes before I saw anyone creeping along the side of the path, and it was another five before they realized Jim was long gone and came out into the open.  As soon as I spotted Simon, I scrambled down.

"Sandburg!"  His bellow echoed around us.  "What the hell is going on?"

"Oh, man, am I glad to see you.  They've got Jim." I held up my hand as he opened his mouth.  "I couldn't see any footprints on the path, but maybe you can find something, and no, I didn't walk on the path, I walked on the side.  There's a turning place for an old logging road about a half-mile from here. There are fresh tire tracks at the turning, and..."  I paused, shoving down the panic that had dogged me all morning.  "I saw a bunch of keys on the ground next to the tracks. They look like Jim's keys, but I didn't want to ruin the tracks, so I couldn't get close enough to make sure." I turned and pointed to a dark spot halfway up the hill to the north.  "There's a shallow cave where the kidnapper could have waited for Jim.  I don't have a flashlight, so I couldn't check it out very well, but I think there's a candy wrapper on the floor, and it looks pretty new, so it's a possibility..."

I paused again, and made the mistake of looking at Simon's face.  Shit.  I'd been good; I'd been holding myself together pretty damn well, thinking about how they'd worked kidnapping Jim and trying to figure out where they'd take him, but the look of compassion and concern in Simon's eyes almost undid me.

"Hey, slow down.  Breathe."  He put his hand on my shoulder and frowned.  "How long have you been out here?"

"I don't know.  I left right after I dropped the tape off in your office."  I wrapped my arms around my chest.  For some reason I was shivering.

"You've done a good job, Blair.  We'll make a detective of you yet."  He glanced at his watch. "Let's talk on the way back to the station."  He turned and spoke to one of the officers.  "Huang, split up your people and check out the path, the logging road, and the cave.  Sandburg can ID the keys when you get back."

More quickly than I'd have thought possible, we were in the warmth of Simon's car on our way back to the station.  I'd wanted to drive myself back, but Simon had nixed that idea, and arranged for both Jim's truck and my car to be driven back.  He'd also rustled up a cup of coffee from somewhere, and it felt good to hold it.  I hadn't realized how cold I'd gotten.

"Okay, Blair."  Simon sighed.  "Fill me in."

I took a sip of coffee.  It was awful - bitter and oily - but it was hot, and I desperately wanted it to warm that icy spot in my chest.

"Not here, Simon.  I'll tell you everything when we get back to the station."

I thought he might argue, but he didn't.  He just nodded and left me alone with my thoughts.  I guess he figured he was doing me a favor.  He couldn't know how wrong he was.

~~~~

"So," Simon took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, "our ploy didn't work.  They didn't believe that you two are lovers, or that Jim has problems controlling his senses."

I stopped pacing and leaned against the cinderblock wall of the interview room. _Our_ room.  Jim's and mine. "Maybe they don't care.  Maybe they _do_ care, but they need Jim anyhow." I shrugged.  "I don't know _why_ it didn't work, Simon.  All I know is that I thought it might keep them away from Jim, and I was wrong."

"You don't know that, Blair. They might have had to change their plans because of what you did.  You might have bought us some time to find Jim..."  I stared at a grease spot on the dirty linoleum floor and didn't bother to answer.  Not even Simon sounded convinced.

"Hey, kid, you did what you could."  Simon's voice was gentle.  Kind.  Understanding.  It terrified me.

"I did...  I did _nothing_!"  The echoes of my shout rang in the room and startled me.  I was dancing along the fine line of hysteria, and if I wasn't careful, I'd tip over the edge and be totally useless in the search for Jim.  I closed my eyes and concentrated on my breathing until I felt more in control.

Control.  That was a joke.

"I need to talk to Jack Kelso.  He might be able to get information about other SNWO members who could be involved in this."  I shoved my hands in my pockets and pushed away from the wall.  I had to _move_.  "I have to call Jim's friends, the Morgans, too.  They know who supports the eugenicists, and they might be able to give us a lead.  The description and drawing of the guy with Wallace and Paul we sent out yesterday... He could be involved.  Maybe someone's been able to ID the suspect.  I've got to check up on that."

"Good."  Simon stood and caught my shoulder as I passed, pulling me to a standstill.  "I'm pulling Taggart and Connor off the bank robberies and putting them on this, Blair.  Full time.  And everyone else in the Department will be pulling overtime until we find Jim and bring him home safe and sound."

I looked up at Simon and tried to get my voice to work.  "Thanks, man."

Simon gave my shoulder a shake.  "No thanks are necessary.  We want the old grouch back as much as you do.  But there's another thing - you have to promise _not_ to leave the station alone-"

"What?"  I jerked away.  "I don't need a babysitter!"

"I didn't say that, Sandburg. But you're not a cop-"

"Dammit, Simon!  I _know_ I'm not a cop!  Even if I _didn't_ know it, you keep reminding me!  'Don't do this, you're not a cop, Sandburg.' 'Don't do that, you're not a cop, Chief.'  Well, I don't give a _shit_ about not being a cop, man, because if we don't find Jim quickly he's gonna be warehoused in some godforsaken corner of the world and treated like some fucking _stud_ for his goddammed _sperm_ and he'll live out his life like a lab rat and I will _not_ _let_ _that_ _happen_!"

My hands hurt.  I looked down at my grazed and bloody knuckles and up at the wall that I guess I had punched.  Two heavy hands grabbed my upper arms and spun me around.

"_I'm_ not gonna let that happen, either, Blair."  Simon's face was pasty.  "But you've been threatened by the people who have Jim.  They might decide not to honor their bargain and come after you anyway."  He released my arms and stepped away.  "If something happened to you, Jim would get free and kill me for not keeping you safe."  Simon swallowed and blinked, then turned to the door.  "And then he'd kill himself."

I stared at him, speechless, as he walked out.

~~~~

"Sandy?"  The voice was soft, but compelling. "Sandy?"

I jerked away and sat up, pushing back the hair that fell in my face and blinking in the bright lights of the bullpen.

"Wha?"  Another blink.  Ah.  The blur in front of me focused.  "What is it, Megan?  You got something?"

She slapped a piece of paper on the desk in front of me and pointed to a picture.  "We just got this from the Austrian police.  A possible ID on the suspect."

I grabbed my glasses and shoved them on, ignoring the burning grit in my eyes.  Wow.  The guy looked a lot like the ID sketch.  I scanned the document.  Jurgen Lauterbach.  Thirty-five. There wasn't much in the file. Arrested for assault and extortion, but released on a technicality.  Suspected of hiring himself out as an assassin, specializing in scenarios generating the maximum pain before death.

Shit.

"Here, drink this."  Megan placed a cup of hot chocolate on the desk.  Jim's desk.  The desk I was using until we got him back.  I liked seeing his stuff around me.  It gave me hope, which, at that point, was in pretty short supply.

"Thanks."  I sipped carefully - it was scalding and sweet enough to keep a classroom of five-year-olds bouncing off the walls, but felt good going down - and glanced at the clock.  Two am.  I'd slept for an hour, maybe two.  Enough, at least, to tide me over for a while.  I stretched, working out the knots in my neck and shoulders, and tried not to think about what was happening to Jim right now.

"Grab your coat, Blair.  We're calling it a night."  At his desk, Joel Taggart slapped a folder closed and stood up, nodding to Megan.  "You too, Connor. I've put out an APB on this Lauterbach guy. There's nothing else we can do until morning."

I didn't argue.  Joel and Megan had covered every base. For an hour in the afternoon, they had listened intently as Simon and I filled them in on the background: the surveillance, the murders, the SNWO, all of it.  Well, all of it except for the real reason why the SNWO was interested in Jim in the first place.  We kinda finessed that - not exactly lying, but not being entirely truthful, either. If Megan wanted to run with the psychic thread, that was fine with me. After that we'd all four gone over the reports from the scene in detail, and I'd IDed the keys as Jim's.  Then I barely made it to the men's room before I puked up the sandwich I'd choked down earlier.  Simon followed me in and handed me a couple of wet paper towels when I was finished.  He didn't say anything.  What was there to say?  But he stayed with me until I'd cleaned myself up, and I really appreciated that.

I'd sent a letter to Jack Kelso via an undercover cop and begged for his help.  Names of members, contacts, places where they might be keeping Jim, _any_ information that would put us a step ahead of where we were.  Jack sent back a message saying that he'd call in a bunch of favors and get right on it.

That left me with the task I dreaded most: calling Neil and Cynthia.  Yeah, I know it would have been better if I'd driven down there and broke the news in person.  I couldn't because of two reasons.  First, I didn't have the time to drive all the way to Seattle - I was needed here in Cascade, helping look for Jim.  Second...  Well, not to put too fine a point on it, I couldn't bear to see their faces when I told them.  They'd warned us, and we'd ignored that warning.  They had every reason to blame us and say 'I told you so.'  Of course they didn't say that.  They were horrified and frightened and tried to comfort me, which made me feel worse.  I told them I'd call again as soon as we had any news, and hung up the phone on the sound of Cynthia's sobs.

Dammit, Jim!  You and your stupid heroics.

So I grabbed my coat and walked with Joel down to his car.  I was going to bunk at his place for what was left of the night, because there was no way I could stay home by myself. I didn't want to, even if Simon hadn't already told me, in no uncertain terms, that he'd kill me himself if I even thought about it.  Hey, I'm not a fool - I didn't need any persuading to accept Joel's offer of his couch.  I needed to grab a few personal necessities, though, so Joel swung by the loft on our way to his place.

"Y'know, you didn't have to come up with me," I said as we waited for the elevator to grind its way to the third floor.

"When Jim gets back, do you think I want to have him all over my ass if something happened to you?" Joel snorted.  "Not a chance."

"Well, I'm not planning on doing anything stupid."  I looked at Joel.  He and Simon had said pretty much the same thing, about answering to Jim if anything happened to me...  Weird.  I mean, I know Jim's a protective kinda guy, but it's not like I'm the only person he protects.  Not at all.

"Glad to hear it, Sandburg."  The elevator doors opened and Joel waved in the direction of our door.  "Go get your stuff.  I'm starting to drop."

I left Joel standing at the door while I grabbed a few things from the bathroom, and then stopped by my bedroom for a change of clothes.

I know I didn't scream, or curse, or say anything, 'cause Joel didn't come running, gun drawn.  It took me a couple of seconds to process what my eyes were seeing - a gap on my shelves where my journals were supposed to be.

Shit.  They'd been here and taken all my journals.  All my notes about Jim's abilities, raw test results, theories, conjectures, everything... gone.  I stared blankly for a minute, trying to decide how to explain the importance of this loss to Joel, when I looked down at my desk, and all thoughts of telling anyone anything disappeared.

Jim's cell phone sat square in the middle of my desk, on top of a scribbled note.

"Take this and be waiting for our call in the morning.

Tell no one, or Ellison will suffer."

My mind raced as I stared at the phone.  They took my journals, they say they need to contact me...  Damn.  Your senses must really be freaking, and they, whoever _they_ are, don't have a fucking clue about how to help you.  Oh god, Jim, what the hell am I going to do?

"Come _on_, Sandburg," Joel groused, and I stuck the phone and note into my backpack, along with a clean shirt and underwear.  My hands were shaking, so I took a few seconds to calm and center myself.  Now was _definitely_ not the time to lose it.

"I'm ready, man," I said, checking to make sure all the lights were out before locking the door.  "Show me this really comfortable couch of yours..."

~~~~

Despite the fact that I felt like I had a time bomb in my backpack, and the additional fact that Joel's couch was both lumpy _and_ hard, I slept through the alarm and woke up only when Joel shook me awake on his way to answer the door.

"Rise and shine, Blair," he said.  "That's Connor, bringing donuts and coffee."

"It better be industrial strength," I muttered as I staggered into the bathroom.  A shower made me feel a little more human, and by the time I'd absorbed my coffee I was pretty much back to normal.  Megan and Joel discussed their game plan for the day while I fidgeted in my seat.  I mean, I know tracing cars and doing door-to-door interviews are important, but they are so teeth-grindingly _slow_...

Before we left, I reached into my backpack and switched on Jim's cell phone.  This was one call we couldn't afford to miss.

The bullpen was hopping by the time we got there.  As we walked to our desks, we were constantly stopped by offers of help.  Detectives, support staff, uniforms - the show of support was overwhelming.

"Make sure you tell Jim about this when he gets home," said Megan an hour later, as we fielded another offer of help from a traffic cop.  She checked the stack of photocopies we'd made of Lauterbach - they were going fast, a handful given out to everyone.  Chances were that nothing would come from them, but at least everyone felt as if they were contributing by looking out for the guy.

"I will," I promised, "right after I bust his ass for going off like this in the first place.  Stupid jerk thinks he's Superman..."  I broke off when the phone rang.  I reached for the one on the desk before I realized that it wasn't ringing.

The sound came from my backpack.

I fumbled with the straps for a second before I could get it out.

"Sandburg."  God, I hope I didn't sound as scared as I felt.

"I assume you cannot talk, Mr. Sandburg.  Am I correct?"  It was the same voice that was on the tape Jim had left.

I got up, waving away Megan's inquiring look.  "Yeah.  That's right."

"We are in need of your help, Mr. Sandburg.  Your... _partner_ is experiencing a few difficulties that we cannot resolve."  I made my way to the breakroom as he spoke.  Thank god it was empty.

"I want to talk to him before I agree to anything."  My voice shook, but I didn't care.

There was a pause.  "Very well.  Please wait."

I closed my eyes and concentrated.  I heard a heavy metallic boom.  It echoed a little.  Then voices, murmuring in the background.  Then someone - not the guy I spoke with - said 'Ellison, your partner wants to talk to you.'

"Mr. Sandburg?" I flinched as the voice boomed out of the receiver.

"I'm still here."

"Mr. Ellison can speak to you now."  There was a grim humor in that voice that gave me the chills.

"Jim?"

"Blair?"  It was a dry croak, but it was Jim's voice. Oh god...

"Jim, are you okay?"

I could hear Jim's labored breath.  "Don't come after me, Chief," he blurted in a rush, then I could hear a sharp crack, and he gasped.

"Jim?"  You bastards, I thought, and dropped into a chair.  My hands were shaking so much that I was having trouble holding onto the phone.  "Jim!"

A dry chuckle came over the line, and I wanted to strangle the man behind that voice. "Mr. Ellison cannot speak anymore.  As I said before, we need your help."

"What do you want me to do?"

"You will need to slip away from your watchdogs.  Can you do that?"

"Yeah."  I didn't know how, but I would do it.

"Then I want you to go, on foot, to the Granville Street mall.  Enter through the Robson Street entrance and go straight to the Book Attic's philosophy section.  You will be contacted there."

"Okay.  What time?"  I glanced at the clock.  It was almost ten.

"Leave within the next half-hour.  And Mr. Sandburg?"

"Yeah?"

"I will know if you tell anyone or are being watched.  Listen."

Another voice in the background said 'Is this necessary?'  There were a series of muffled, flesh-slapping-flesh sounds, grunts, and finally a long groan.

I recognized the voice behind the groan.  "Stop it!  Dammit, whatever you're doing, stop it!  I'll be there!"

"See that you are."

The line went dead.

I turned off the phone and stared at the table top for a minute.  There was no time to panic, no time to allow myself to feel anything.  I had less than half-an-hour to figure out what I was going to do.

First, I had to let Simon know what had happened, but he wouldn't just let me walk out of the station by myself - he'd want to put me under observation, or lock me up so I couldn't go at all...  Okay.  Simon would have to find out after the fact.

There was a pad of paper and a pencil stub next to the phone in the breakroom, which were used to write lunch orders.  I scribbled out a note to Simon, telling him what they had left in my room last night, and our phone conversation today.  I told him I was going to meet with these people, and that I'd do my best to help Jim.  I reminded him to check with Jack Kelso about the list of names he was working on, and asked him to call Neil and Cynthia if...  I didn't finish that sentence.

I didn't like lying to Megan and Joel, and asked Simon to apologize to them.  My decision to do this wasn't their fault, and I felt bad that I was using their friendship to fool them.

I guess Jim was right about me manipulating my friends for my own purposes.

Enough of that.  Now was not the time for wallowing in guilt - I could do that later, when Jim was safe.  I finished the note and slipped out of the breakroom.  Rhonda wasn't at her desk - I grabbed an interoffice envelope and put my note in, addressing it to Simon.  Then I shoved it under a pile of outgoing mail.  Pickup was in half-an-hour, and by the time it got through the mailroom, my note probably wouldn't be delivered until two or three this afternoon.  By then I'd be long gone, but at least Simon, Joel and Megan would know what had happened.

Megan looked up as I sat down at my desk.  Jim's desk, I mean.

"Everything okay, Sandy?"

"Yeah."  I smiled at her.  "Just a student with a personal problem."

"I see."  She shot me an assessing look, but I just picked up another report from the scene and buried my nose in it.  Now I just had to figure out how to slip away.

I waited ten minutes, then put down the report and stood.  "I've gotta hit the can," I explained as Joel and Megan broke off their discussion about tire impressions and looked up.  He nodded, she grinned, and they went back to checking out the photos spread out over Joel's desk.  I ducked out the door, slipping my coat off the coat rack as I left.  In three minutes I was on the street, waiting at the corner light to cross.

I was two blocks away from the station, moving quickly through the crowd, when I suddenly felt something pressed against the middle of my back.  I stumbled a little, and a hand gripped my arm, steadying me.

"This way, Mr. Sandburg."  Before I could do anything, I was hustled across the pavement and into a parking lot.

"But..."  I twisted around.  The guy holding my arm was dark, almost swarthy, with lank black hair cut short.  He was wearing a black dress coat and black leather gloves.  The pressure in my back increased.

"There's been a change in plans.  You're still going to see your _friend_," he said, grimacing.  "Now come along quietly, or I'll shoot you in the leg."  He stopped short, jerking me in his grasp, and leaned forward until he was right in my face.  "And believe me, I'd _love_ to have any excuse to do that."

I stared back, meeting his cold gaze. I knew how to deal with bullies like this one: don't confront, but don't show any fear. "Hey, I've said I'll cooperate.  Just take me to Jim."

"Don't worry."  He steered me toward a white van parked near the corner and gestured me into the back.  It had "Alberto and Sons, registered Electricians" painted on the side.  The inside was a cluttered mess.  With a muttered curse, my guard kicked a space clear on the floor.  "Sit down."

I did as he said.  No way was I going to jeopardize Jim's life, and my own, by pissing off this jerk.  He used duct tape to bind my feet together, then had me put my arms on either side of one of the equipment shelf supports, and taped my wrists together.  It was pretty uncomfortable, but I kept quiet, and was really glad he didn't gag me.

Before he started the van, he pulled out a cell phone and made a call.

"I've got him."  He listened for a minute.  "Yeah. _Just_ what I expected.  No, I know...  Okay.  I'm starting out now."

I squirmed a little, trying to get comfortable.  He turned around and glared at me, but didn't say anything.  I hoped it wasn't going to be a long ride.

~~~~

It was.  A long ride, I mean.  After two hours of bouncing around on a corrugated metal floor, I was so glad when the van stopped and my guard got out that I almost didn't care where I was.  I squirmed around, trying to find a place on my butt that wasn't bruised, listening to the sounds of approaching footsteps.  The rear doors opened, and my guard stood there, gun drawn, along with a young, clean-cut guy in a wrinkled white dress shirt and loosened tie.

The young guy looked at my guard, who nodded and gestured toward me with his gun.

"Go on, cut him loose, Dr. Petersen."

Without a word, the young guy climbed in and searched the shelves until he found a utility knife.  I must've flinched when he put the knife blade on the tape around my wrists, because he gave me a shy smile.

"Don't worry.  I know what I'm doing."

He was very careful, but I was relieved when he put down the knife.  He jerked off the tape and I hissed in pain - it felt like all the hairs on my arms had been pulled out by the roots.

"Sorry," he said, and shrugged apologetically.  Then he cut my ankles loose, while I massaged my wrists.  My hands tingled, and I flexed my fingers experimentally.

"Let's move, Mr. Sandburg.  You're expected."

"Great," I muttered, and I slid out of the van.  My legs were a bit shaky when I tried to stand, but I locked my knees and waited until they steadied.  No way did I want to ask for help from either of these guys.

We were in a loading dock, empty except for the van.  I glanced out the doors, but it opened onto a vacant parking lot surrounded by trees. It could have been anywhere. So much for figuring out where we were.

Petersen turned.  "Follow me, Mr. Sandburg."  He went up the steps to the loading platform and through a delivery door.  I followed, shadowed by my guard, gun still drawn.

We walked down a bunch of anonymous corridors, all white walls and scuffed tile floors.  The doors were unlabeled, except for exits, and I didn't see a window anywhere.  Petersen finally turned a corner and stopped in front of another blank door.  He pushed it open.

"Go on," he said, and I stepped inside, hoping to see Jim.

It was a conference room - or had been, in better days.  The big mahogany table was still there, and the chairs, but the table was scarred and stained, and the chairs looked like rejects from a fraternity dining hall.

Two men were sitting there.  One I recognized immediately - Lauterbach.  He was sitting at the far corner of the table, his hands neatly folded in front of him.  I didn't stare at him - I didn't want him to know that I knew who he was - and my eyes slid over to the other man, sitting at the head of the table.

He was old, probably nearing seventy, but he sat very upright, his shoulders squared and his spine straight.  I guess you'd describe his face as aristocratic; it was long and thin, with a narrow, unforgiving nose and a pale slash for a mouth.  He looked at me as if I smelled.  His eyes were as cold and empty as space.  My journals were on the table in front of him, in two neat piles.

"Where's Jim?" I said, meeting those cold eyes head-on.  No fucking _way_ was I going to show any fear in front of these guys.  If I did, I knew that I'd be killed immediately, and Jim would be lab-rat toast.

The old guy flapped a hand in the direction of a chair.  "Sit down, please, Mr. Sandburg.  We must discuss Mr. Ellison with you."  His voice was as cold as his eyes, and his accent hinted at a British background, or at least schooling.

"There's nothing to discuss until I see Jim."  First things first.  I have my priorities.

"Mr. Vargas?"  His eyes flickered over to my guard.

The gun poked me in the back.

I crossed my arms and stood my ground.

"Kill me, or shoot me in the leg like he threatened to," I said, jerking my head toward Vargas, "and the result will be the same.  I won't be able to help Jim _or_ you and you'll be in the same spot you are now."

The old man frowned.  "I asked you to sit _down_, Mr. Sandburg."

"I agreed to cooperate and come here because you threatened Jim," I began, raising my voice and letting a little of my anger show.  "I don't know what is wrong with him.  Until I see him and can assess the problem, I can't help you."  The old guy opened his mouth, but I held up my hand and he shut it again.  "And don't try to tell me what you _think_ is wrong.  _I'm_ the expert here... You don't know _shit_ about Jim and his abilities, and you _won't_ learn anything about them without my help, even if you spend the rest of your life observing Jim and reading my journals!"  I stepped forward and rested my hands on the table, leaning toward him.  "I want to see Jim _now_."

He blinked, looking almost startled for a second, then his lips curled up a fraction of an inch.

"Very well, Mr. Sandburg, you may see Mr. Ellison."  He pushed back his chair and stood, then nodded once to Lauterbach.  "Congratulations on your correct assessment of the situation."  He walked over to the door.  "Dr. Petersen, will you do the honors?"

"Yes, Dr. Sardana," Petersen murmured.  He scooted out the door and across the hall, where he unlocked another anonymous door.  I was right on his heels.

The door swung open and I stepped inside.

I swear it felt like I stood there for an hour or more, my brain running into a brick wall every time I tried to process what I was seeing, but it was probably more like five seconds.

No.

"You fucking _bastards_!" I rounded on Sardana, letting all my anger out, letting my fear and the churning in my gut feed into my rage.  His eyes widened and he stepped back.  "I want each and every one of those _fucking_ electrodes off him _now_!"  I turned to Petersen.  "The restraints and gag as well!"  I turned back to Jim and my voice caught in my throat.  "And get that goddamned catheter out of him..."

I didn't wait to hear their responses - I was across the room and at the chair where Jim was held in three steps, my hands tugging at the tight knots at the back of Jim's head.  My fingers rubbed against the smooth skin of his head as I worked, caressing the pale, strangely vulnerable curve of skull at the top of his neck and I swallowed hard.  He leaned back a little, rubbing his head against my hands for a second, like he was blindly seeking comfort.  Ah, god, Jim...  All your hair shaved off, gone, just as you had started to let it grow...

I pulled off the gag and he winced.  His lower lip was swollen and bloody, fresh blood seeping from a scrape that had reopened.  Cuts and bruises covered his face.  I carefully held his face between my hands and checked his eyes.  His lids were drooping, and I wondered what the hell they had given him. "Jim? Hey, man, I'm here..."  His eyelids fluttered and he tried to smile.

"Good to see you, Chief..." he croaked, his voice rough.  His words surprised me, especially the 'Chief' - I was expecting him to ream me out for agreeing to come, but he sounded drowsy and out of it, and was probably too doped up to think straight.

I gently stroked his temples and he closed his eyes and leaned into my touch, like a cat or a child. Then he suddenly flinched and shuddered and I looked down.

"Be _careful_, you..."  I bit off the rest of the sentence.

Petersen murmured an apology as he removed the catheter.  When it was out, Jim sighed.  Just a tiny puff of air, but it tore at my heart.

I moved my hand to Jim's shoulder and glanced around the room.  Apart from the chair Jim was in, two stools and banks of instruments, it was bare.

I turned to Sardana, who was watching us from the doorway, Lauterbach by his side.  "I need to move him to a bed, and I want his clothes back.  Then I'll need to be alone with him for a couple of hours."

I turned back to Jim and began to pull off the electrodes dotted over his head and body.  I kept stroking and touching him gently, avoiding the bruises that blossomed darkly beneath his skin and the oozing cuts and scrapes.  His rock-hard muscles responded by slowly relaxing.

Sardana murmured something, and I saw, out of the corner of my eye, Vargas leave.  "Mr. Sandburg," he called, in a 'heel, boy' tone of voice.

"Yeah?"  I kept working on Jim, slowly coaxing the patches off of his tender skin.  Needle tracks trailed up the inside of his arms.

"You may have half-an-hour with Mr. Ellison.  That should suffice."

"That's not enough time."  When Petersen pulled on a patch at Jim's groin and made him flinch again, I shouldered him to one side and cursed under my breath.  What the hell did they think they were going to learn by putting a patch _there_?  Jesus, there was hardly a place on Jim's body where they _hadn't_ put an electrode.

"It will have to be."

I turned, keeping my hand on Jim's knee, an anchor for the two of us.  "Think again.  No time equals no information.  First of all, Jim was having trouble with his senses before you kidnapped him.  I have yet to figure out what caused _that_.  Second, you've very foolishly given him something, and if you've read my journals, you know that he reacts inconsistently to drugs.  I don't know how the drug has affected him, or how long it will take for it to work its way through his system. I may not be able to get _anywhere_ with him at all, thanks to you.  Third, he's dehydrated and a mass of bruises.  He needs food and water.  Until I can get him comfortable enough to relax and allow me to make my assessment, I can't do a goddamned thing to help anyone!"

Sardana stared at me, and I returned the stare.  I didn't have a clue what he was thinking, whether my arguments would piss him off or persuade him.  To my surprise, he turned to Lauterbach.

"Your opinion?"

The other man didn't even look at us.  He shrugged and said, "His statements are consistent with my observations and what we have read in the journals."

Sardana frowned, but nodded.  "I trust your judgment.  Very well, Mr. Sandburg," he continued, turning back to look at me.  "I will expect your expert opinion at seven this evening."  He turned and left.

Lauterbach stayed by the door, guarding us, I suppose, although I never saw a gun.  I turned back to Jim and finished stripping off the patches.  Now he was covered with large sticky places where the patches had been, and I knew it must be driving him nuts.  I looked at Petersen.

"You got anything to get this adhesive off?"

Petersen gave me a bottle of some kind of solvent and a handful of cotton balls, and I got the worst off of Jim.  Vargas appeared as I was working and tossed Jim's clothes onto the floor next to me.  I was rubbing at a nasty spot on the inside of Jim's upper thigh, and Vargas muttered something.  I thought I heard the words 'filthy fags,' but I was concentrating on Jim, and ignored him.  Besides, they were _supposed_ to believe that we were a couple.

Jim's hand suddenly covered mine.  "That's enough, Blair," he said, his speech still slurred, his hand shaking.  "Wanna get dressed..."

"Sure, man."  I sorted through the clothes Vargas had brought, and helped Jim pull on his boxers and socks.  He grimaced as he struggled to stand, but insisted on doing it.  I got him into his jeans and shirt.  We didn't bother with shoes - I wanted him to rest while I figured out what the hell I was going to say to Sardana.  There was no way he was getting the truth, but whatever story I came up with would have to be plausible and consistent - Lauterbach's obvious knowledge about us made that important.  And I had no idea if Jim was even going to be able to help me - the drugs might keep him confused for hours or days. I picked up Jim's shoes.

"Where to?" I asked Vargas, once Jim was reasonably steady on his feet.

"Follow Dr. Petersen," he said, and motioned us into the hallway with his gun.  I wanted to tell him how Freudian that was, but decided that probably wasn't the best idea.

Jim took a step and swayed.  I was expecting that, given his physical condition, and caught him around the waist.  He draped his arm over my shoulders, and we made our slow way down the corridor and around the corner.  Petersen was waiting for us at an open door.  Jim staggered slightly and I braced myself - god, he wasn't thinking of making a break for it now - not with Vargas standing behind us, trigger-happy.  But Jim just grabbed the doorframe and steadied himself for a second.  He gave me a quick nod, and we went inside.

The windowless room had the same air of neglect as the others.  In this case, however, there was an old hospital bed in the corner, with one of those uncomfortable plastic '60's Star Trek-type chairs pulled up beside it.  A pitcher of water and two glasses were on the bedside table, and that was it.  Another doorway opened onto a small bathroom, the door removed from the hinges.  The bed, I was thankful to see, had clean sheets, a blanket, and a pillow, and I steered Jim toward it.

"I will bring you some food later," said Petersen, before he closed the door.  I heard the lock click.

"Okay, Jim, we're almost there," I muttered, wondering what the hell I was going to do now.  I mean, how was I going to play this?  I'd set it up for Sardana and Lauterbach to think we were lovers - but Jim didn't know anything about that.  And I'd bet everything I owned... okay, that wasn't much, but I'd bet everything _Jim_ owned, that they were listening in on us.  Anger and nerves had carried me through until now, but this stumped me...

I got Jim settled and poured him some water. He tried to wrap his fingers around the glass, but his hands shook, so I held the glass up to his lips and he managed a couple of sips.

"Enough," he said, sinking back against the pillows and closing his eyes.  I set the glass down and looked at him - his eyes were open and he glared at me.

"I told you _not_ to follow me, Chief," he rasped, his fingers clutching my arm.

"Yeah, right, Jim."  I hitched my hip up on the side of the bed.  "Tell me, if I was the one who'd been kidnapped and _I_ told _you_ not to follow me, would you do what I asked?"

He blinked and stared at me for a second, then shook his head.  "No.  Not possible, Sandburg.  I couldn't do it."

"Then why do you think I _can_?  Get real, Jim.  I _had_ to follow you. I had to come when they told me to.  I had no choice in the matter."

He frowned a little and his fingers tightened on my arm.  Then he jerked me forward and I sprawled, face down, on his chest.

"Jim!  What the-"

Before I could move, his arms wrapped around me and he hauled me until we were face to face.  I grabbed his shoulders and levered myself up enough to look at him.

Jim was smiling with such sweetness and tenderness that my throat went dry and I had trouble swallowing.

"Thanks for coming after me, Blair," he said softly.  With a sigh, he pressed my shoulders down until my face was buried in the crook of his neck.  I could feel his lips nuzzle my throat and his hands gently stroke my back and head.

Sweet Jesus.

His breath was hot on my ear and I shivered.

"Play along," he whispered into my ear.  "The room is bugged.  Audio, no video.  I overheard you set it up with Simon for us to look like we're lovers.  Good idea."

Well, Jim obviously wasn't as affected by the drugs as I had first feared.  That was good. As for the idea of us being lovers...  I wasn't so sure about the wisdom of that.  My body, however, had decided that it _really_ liked the idea.  It didn't care that we were in serious trouble; it didn't care that someone was listening in; it had decided that _this_ was what it wanted and it was damn well going to take advantage of the situation.  I suddenly sported a woody that drilled itself into Jim's thigh, and the temperature in the room rocketed up two dozen degrees, at least.

I cleared my throat.  "Like I said, Jim, I didn't have a choice.  I had to come." I allowed myself to press heavily on him for a long moment, shifting a little to rub against him.  Damn.  If I wasn't careful, I _would_ come right in my jeans.

Jim chuckled and reached down to pat my ass.  Oh god, he was patting my _ass_...  "Keep that thought, Blair.  Right now we can't do anything about it, but later..."

I slid down his body far enough so that I could sit up again.  In doing so, I discovered something really interesting.  I mean, _really_ interesting.

Jim had an erection, too.

Okay, this wasn't the time to ask him about it.  We had a lot of other things to talk about that came higher on the scale of 'Things We Need To Do to Survive.'  But I couldn't help it - I dragged one hand, palm down, from his shoulders down to his waist, then over his erection.  He was hot and hard as a rock.  His hips jerked once, and he covered my hand with his and pressed my fingers down onto his cock.

I searched his face for a clue about what this meant.  I was pretty sure, but I didn't want to make any stupid assumptions - this was too important to mess up.  Jim looked at me solemnly, then he blinked and lowered his eyes, and the pressure on my hand eased up.

Shit.  Couldn't he read me? See how much I wanted him?  I'm the one who's always the open book...  Well, I'd just have to make myself into the large print edition and be a little more obvious.

So I gave his cock a slow, heavy caress, then leaned forward and planted a kiss right on it.  It was blazing - my lips felt like they'd been scalded, even through the material of his jeans.  Jim moaned once, taking a shaky breath as I pulled away and slid off the bed.  He blinked at me owlishly, a wry grin twisting the corners of his lips.

"Love you, Sandburg," he whispered.  I guess my surprise at his words showed, because he nodded once, then turned onto his side, facing the wall.

"Love you, too, man."  Like Jim, I spoke loudly enough for my words to be picked by the bug.  Then I added, in a voice so soft I couldn't even hear myself, "For real, Jim.  For goddamned fucking real."

He closed his eyes and his chest heaved once.  I stroked his shoulder, then my hand moved up to rub his bare head.  "Skinhead is not a good look for you, man.  Still, if Patrick Stewart can carry it off..."

He snorted and turned onto his back, wincing and shifting his shoulders restlessly.  "At least mine will grow back," he said, trying to fit a smile on his face.

"You could always wear a rug while you waited, like William Shatner."

Another snort.  "Yeah.  Or Marv Albert."

I laughed.  "You're right.  Maybe not."  Good.  He was relaxing a bit.  I sniffed experimentally and screwed up my face.  "You stink, man."  Jim's eyes widened, and his jaw shot out.  I grinned.  "Take it easy.  I'm going to freshen you up a bit."  I gave his shoulder a pat and walked over to the bathroom.

"Why does that thought terrify me?" he grumbled.

I looked around the bathroom.  At least it was functional.  The sink was one of your cheap, white, public bathroom jobs, with a bar of yellow soap that looked rancid.  A threadbare towel was folded on the side of the sink.  The sink was clean, like the toilet.  There was a showerhead in the corner, and a drain in the tile floor, but no shower stall or curtain.  I guess the water sprayed where ever.  I couldn't find anything to use as a basin, or a washcloth, so I stripped off my tee-shirt.  It was the best substitute for a wash cloth I could come up with off-hand.  The soap smelled as bad as it looked, so I decided that Jim would be better off not smelling like that.  I soaked my tee-shirt in hot water and then wrung it out.

"Okay," I hurried over to Jim.  "Let's start with your face."

It was amazing.  I could see the tension drain from him as I wiped and dried each part of his body, cleaning off the blood and sweat. I worked quickly and impersonally - this was _definitely_ not the time for either of us to get excited - but I couldn't help cursing under my breath at every cut and bruise.  And there were a lot.  Jim was a complete stoic about the whole process, moving this way and that as necessary, not even flinching when I had to clean out a nasty cut on his back.

It wasn't until I reached for his fly that a ripple of tension passed through him.

He raised his hips so I could tug off his pants and shorts, but I could still sense his reluctance.  "It's okay, man," I murmured.  I started with his feet, biting my tongue at the swollen soles.  At least nothing was broken...

By the time I reached his groin, he was breathing heavily, but I was pretty sure it wasn't because he was turned on.  His cock was soft, thank god, and I worked quickly, trying not to stare at it, or wonder exactly what it looked like when it was hard.  It was red around the opening, probably from the damned catheter.

I patted his hip.  "Turn over, and I'll get the backs of your thighs."

He sighed, a hollow gust of air, and my hackles raised at the sound.  Something was very wrong, here.  I helped him turn over, then quickly resumed wiping and drying him. I touched his ass and he jerked once, biting off a sound before I could tell if it was a moan or a scream.  There was dried blood on his cheeks from a number of shallow cuts; the blood had smeared over his skin when he was tied to the chair.  I wiped it away, trying to ignore how the muscles beneath my fingers were rock-hard.  There was more blood near the center, and I wiped it off and pulled his cheek gently to one side. Nononono... 

"Jim..."  My voice shook and I had trouble getting the words around my tongue.  "What happened?"

I could see his back move as he breathed deep, shuddering breaths.  His hands clenched into fists.

"They wanted a sperm sample."

"And they..." I whispered. "What did they do?"

"I was kinda out of it from the drugs they gave me.  My hands were numb from being tied. I couldn't... jack myself off, so he shoved something...  It stimulated me and I couldn't help myself."  His voice was soft.

"Who did this?" My voice was softer.

"The blond one, Lauterbach."

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.  My hands moved of their own volition, cleaning and stroking gently, until I could ask, "Could you tell what it was?"

He shifted his hips restlessly.  "I don't know.  It was wood, I think.  I tried... not to feel it."

"Do you know much damage he did?"

"Nothing extensive.  Just surface tears."

"You sure?"

"Yeah.  I know the difference."

I looked up, biting back the questions that rose to my lips.  Later, Jim, later...  Right now I need to finish cleaning you up and get you comfortable, so that we can figure out how to get the hell out of here all in one piece.  When I had wiped away all the blood and dried him off, I leaned over and placed a kiss on each battered ass cheek, then helped him turn over and pull his shorts and jeans back on.  Before I took my tee-shirt and the towel back to the bathroom, I ran my hand up his arm and over his shoulder, cupping the side of his face.

"Love you, Jim," I said, and kissed his forehead.  I wanted to taste him and learn the flavor of his kisses, but his lips were too swollen and bruised for it to be a pleasure to him.

"Blair?"  He crooked a finger under my chin, urging me forward until our lips brushed.  Ah, so this is what you taste like.  I pulled away reluctantly, aware of the metallic tang of blood tainting the flavor of Jim - one of the cuts on his lips had opened up, and I didn't want to make it worse.  "Thank you..." His breath feathered against my cheek.

I draped my tee-shirt and the towel over the sink to dry, then took a minute to center my thoughts.  The next couple of hours were going to be critical, and I had to devote my full attention to finding out exactly what was going on with Jim's senses, and figure out what to tell Sardana.

"Okay, Jim, it's time to get to work."  I pulled the chair over, but Jim moved his legs to one side and patted the bed, so I climbed up and sat cross-legged, Indian style, our thighs pressed together.  Jim put a hand on my knee, and looked at me expectantly.

"First, tell me what happened after they picked you up yesterday.  I need to know _everything_."  I put my hand on top of his and rubbed gently.

It was hard to listen to him calmly relate being beaten, drugged, and restrained, to hear him talk about having his head shaved and the way Lauterbach took blood and tissue samples.  His voice dried up for a second after that, and his fingers tightened on my knee.  So that was when that blond bastard...  I took a deep breath.  "You can skip over that part if you want to, Jim."

He flashed me a grateful look. I leaned forward and hugged him, and quickly whispered what we knew about Lauterbach and his specialty in pain.  When I reluctantly pulled away, Jim frowned for a second, then mouthed "British Sterling."  I nodded.  Everything pointed to Lauterbach being the person who had opened my mail and broken into my office and room, and the person who killed Wallace and Paul.

I didn't want to think about what his interest in us meant.  I had the terrifying feeling that we'd find out about that later.

Jim continued.  I was surprised to hear that Sardana and Petersen hadn't arrived until after Jim had been doped and restrained.  Jim's memories were hazy at that point - he must have passed in and out of consciousness for a couple of hours.  He remembered waking up tied to the chair, electrodes and catheter in place.  Sardana had tried several tests on his senses, but ended up storming out, frustrated, because the results were all over the charts.

Jim gave me a wry grin and reached out, wrapping his hand around the back of my neck and pulling me forward until he had buried his face in my neck.  "I was playing with the dials," he whispered into my ear.  "I'm pretty much back on-line."

He released me and I sat back, returning his grin.  "Good," I mouthed to him.  Out loud I said, "Are these the same problems you were having before?"

"Yeah." He gave me a wicked smile, but he managed to sound disgusted and frustrated.  "Nothing's stable, Chief.  Things keep cutting out cold, or jumping around all over the scale.  I never know whether I'll be able to see at all, or if I'll zoom in on a speck of dirt on the wall and zone completely."

I sighed.  "Aw, man, this sucks.  I really thought we were on to something last time."  I noticed he was calling me 'Chief,' again, when he wasn't doped up, which was a good sign. Of what, I wasn't sure, but at least it was one spot of normality in the middle of all this weird shit.

His face went blank for a minute, like he was concentrating, then he gave me an enigmatic look.  "Well, I have a lot more control now that you're here with me.  At least that's one constant we've established."

"Yeah," I said, wondering what point Jim was trying to make by stating the obvious...  Unless it wasn't obvious to Sardana and his cohorts, and Jim wanted to make sure that I was considered a vital part of the package of Jim and his senses.  I didn't like where that thought led.  "Okay, let's do a couple of test runs and see what's working.  Maybe that'll give me a clue about how to stabilize you.  Start with what you can hear..."

As I helped lead him through the sounds that surrounded us, we kept up a double-sided conversation.  Aloud, Jim complained of catching snippets of sound, only to have them abruptly fade, or of hearing nothing but the wheezy blowers in the heating system, or feeling like his ears were blocked.  He sounded like a little old guy down in Boca kvetching to his cronies.  During all of this, Jim was really trying to find out more about our captors, relaying information to me by mouthing it, or murmuring it in my ear.

Slowly, we built up a picture of who was where.  Jim could hear seven people, in addition to us.  Sardana and Lauterbach were in a room together, listening to us.  Apparently they would talk periodically - from what Jim said, they were discussing test protocols for his senses and what evidence would be necessary to convince the rest of the committee.  They didn't say what committee they were talking about, or what they were trying to convince them of.  Once, Jim gave me the weirdest look - almost panic-stricken - but he didn't say why.  I think they were discussing me, but I didn't ask.

Vargas patrolled the hallways and the loading dock, checking in periodically with Lauterbach.  Petersen was by himself in a near-by room, but Jim couldn't tell what he was doing.  Three other men were stationed around the perimeter of the building, and they checked in with Vargas by radio.

We also tested sight and smell.  From what Jim silently told me, both were working as well as ever, but of course, Jim made up this big song and dance about being blind as a bat and having a perpetual head cold.

That left touch and taste.  Before I could suggest anything to Jim, he lifted his hand to the crown of my head and closed his eyes.  Slowly, delicately, he drew his fingers down my face, skimming my forehead, nose, cheeks, lingering over my lips.  I opened my mouth and breathed on his hand.  He shivered and opened his eyes, looking stunned.  I felt like I was falling.

"I can hardly feel a thing, Chief," he rasped.  "I might as well have mittens on."  Then he grabbed my hand and pulled me forward, until our mouths were a half-inch apart.  His tongue snaked out and he drew it across my lips once, then pulled back.  "Taste isn't working either..."

He blinked and I could tell he was listening to something.  "Van returning," he mouthed, and I nodded that I understood.

"Okay, Jim," I said, ignoring the fact that I was panting like I'd run a race, "let's see if we can get you some more control."

Using some of the exercises we had created when we were first trying to get Jim's senses under control as a basis, I made up a bunch more.  Jim patiently pretended to go through them, making it sound like his control was improving as we went along.

About fifteen minutes later he looked toward the door.  "I smell food," he said. "Hamburgers and fries..."

My stomach rumbled at the thought of food.  I hadn't eaten since breakfast, and Jim hadn't mentioned being fed at all - he was probably starving.  I heard the lock snick and the door opened.  Two McDonald's bags were pushed just inside, and the door slammed shut.

"Dinner..."  I jumped off the bed and grabbed the bags, half-afraid that someone would come back and take them away.  We picnicked on the bed, feeding each other fries and inhaling the burgers like they were manna.  I was worried that the grease would upset Jim's system, but it didn't seem to bother him, and I know I felt a lot better with a full stomach.  It was stupid, really - we were in a hell of a lot of trouble with no way out that I could see, and I had to give some kind of report to Sardana in less than an hour that would make them not want to use Jim for whatever project they had in mind and still not want to kill him, or me, outright - yet sitting there next to Jim, eating burgers and fries with greasy fingers, was about as close to heaven as I could imagine.  Well, I could imagine one or two things that would be closer, but they were out of the question right then.

The best part was that Jim seemed a lot stronger.  His hands didn't shake any more, and his face wasn't pasty-pale.  He pulled me forward and whispered, "The burgers and fries were still hot.  We can't be very far from a town or a major highway.  Something to shoot for when we get out of here."

I nodded, excited that Jim was thinking clearly, especially about something as important as our escape.  For the moment, at least, his quick recovery from the drugs was our secret.  It was a small tactical advantage, but right now we needed any advantage we could get.

When we'd finished and cleaned ourselves up, we continued the exercise charade. Jim made sure not to show too much improvement too quickly, but he kept telling me how much easier it was with me there.  Okay, okay, they get the point that I'm invaluable, Jim.  I hope.

A couple of minutes before seven Jim turned to the door, his fingers digging into my leg.  The lock clicked and the door swung open.  Vargas stood there, his gun pointed at us.

"Dr. Sardana wants to see you both," he said, his disgust obvious.  I slid off the bed and helped Jim put his shoes on.  We'd agreed that it would be better if Jim made out to be weaker than he actually was, so I pretended to support him as we crossed the room.  Vargas gestured us down the corridor and to the door to the conference room.  Before we walked inside, I took a deep breath.

Okay.  It's showtime.

Sardana and Lauterbach were sitting in the same places as the last time I was there - Sardana at the head of the table, and Lauterbach in the corner.  Petersen was next to Sardana, a pad of paper and pencil in front of him on the table.

"Come in, Mr. Ellison, Mr. Sandburg."  Sardana's voice was frosty.

Vargas motioned Jim to sit at the foot of the table, and for me to take a seat about half-way down the side.  I got Jim settled and slid into place.  Vargas stood off to one side, his gun trained on Jim.

"Your report, Mr. Sandburg."  Sardana and Petersen looked at me, expectantly.  Lauterbach stared off into the corner of the room, like I wasn't even there.  It was creepy.

I met Sardana's eyes.  "Physically, Detective Ellison is weak from being drugged, systematically beaten and tortured, deprived of sustenance, and restrained.  He is still subject to periodic bouts of shaking and confusion..."  I spent a long time describing, in explicit detail, Jim's physical condition, and elaborated on his supposed continuing symptoms caused by the drugs and his earlier troubles.  Then I went on to relate the problems with each of his senses in turn, telling the lies we'd agreed on with as much conviction as I could, then describing the exercises Jim and I had faked and his supposed improvement afterward.

"Detective Ellison's abilities are dependent upon a fragile balance," I said in conclusion, "and require constant attention and care - a maintenance plan, if you will - in order for him to use them effectively.  Emotional and physical disturbances, such as pain or anxiety, adversely affect his abilities, and time and effort are necessary to re-establish the necessary balance.  Coercion and threats are counter-productive.  The only way to harness his abilities is through his willing cooperation."

Sardana's eyes shifted from Jim, to me, and then back to Jim.  I followed his gaze - Jim was sitting quietly, looking blank and more than a little out of things.

"Mr. Ellison?"

Jim's eyes slowly focused on Sardana.  "Yes?"

"Do you have anything to add to Mr. Sandburg's report?"

Jim looked at me and cocked his head to one side.  "No."

"Are the drugs still affecting you?"

Jim's gaze swung back to Sardana.  "I still feel a little fuzzy sometimes," he said, articulating carefully, like a drunk trying to appear sober, "but Blair makes it easier to concentrate and use my senses."

"How so?"

Jim shrugged.  "I dunno.  He just does.  Sometimes he talks to me, and sometimes he touches me, and then everything comes clear." He raised his chin mulishly.  "I tried to tell you this yesterday, but you wouldn't listen."

Sardana looked at him for a minute, then turned back to me.

"Do you have an explanation for this reliance on an outside influence?"

"No, I don't have an explanation.  Theories, yeah.  I've got theories out the wazoo...  But if you want me to give you a cut-and-dried reason why Jim works better with me around, I can't do it."

His eyes narrowed and his frown deepened.  He suddenly turned to Lauterbach.

"I agree to your terms.  As we discussed, I will need your assistance in administering the tests and collecting samples until the committee leaves.  After that, they are yours to do with what you will."

"But, Dr. Sardana..." Petersen began, then he froze, mouth open, when Lauterbach looked at him.

"Now wait a minute," I started to stand up.  Vargas swung his gun around to me, and I sat back down.  "I gave you my report!  What's going on?  Who the hell is _he_?"  I pointed to Lauterbach.

"Mr. Sandburg," Sardana said, ignoring my questions, "I shall require cooperation from both Mr. Ellison and you for the next twenty-four hours.  I concur with your points that Mr. Ellison's physical comfort is critical to his performance, and that your presence is necessary as well.  In order to meet these criteria and ensure Mr. Ellison's willing participation, it is necessary for you to remove the sock and shoe on your right foot."

"What?"  I stared at him, flabbergasted.  Take off my sock and shoe?  "Why?"  I looked at Jim.  His face was pale, and he was glaring at Sardana.

Lauterbach turned to face Vargas.  "Call Dawson," he said.  We waited, silent, while Vargas radioed Dawson.  I kept trying to catch Jim's eye, but he was completely focused on Lauterbach. In a couple of minutes a tall, burly guy showed up at the door.  Lauterbach nodded his head in my direction, and I found myself the target of Dawson's gun.  Vargas had his trained on Jim.

"Take off your sock and shoe, Mr. Sandburg, and then put your feet up on the table."

So I did.  I mean, jeez, there was a guy pointing a _gun_ at me.  I put my sock and boot under my chair and propped my feet up on the table, and waited, feeling pretty stupid.  Petersen picked up a box from the floor beside him and came over.  He shot me a weird look, like he was feeling sorry for me, as he opened the box and brought out a metal circle.

"No," Jim rasped, leaning forward and shaking his head.  Vargas stepped close, gesturing him back with the barrel of his gun.  With a quick look at me, Jim sat back, his hands white-knuckling the chair arms.

Petersen pushed my jeans leg up on my right leg, then opened up the circle.  I couldn't see exactly what he was doing - his body blocked my view - but I could feel when he fit it around my ankle and tightened it.  Damn, it was uncomfortable.  And cold. And heavy.

When Petersen stepped away, I propped my ankle on my knee and examined the cuff.  It cinched my leg snugly, rubbing against the skin stretched over my ankle bones.  I tried to slide it around so it would be more comfortable, but Jim shouted, "Don't!"

I stopped immediately and looked at Sardana.  The corners of his mouth curled up a fraction of an inch, and he nodded.

"Good advice, Mr. Ellison."  He sat back in his seat, looking smug.  "Although there is no needle to break off under the skin.  We have abandoned the use of injections in favor of patches.  I assume you are familiar with the concept?"

Jim nodded, his eyes flicking over to me.  "What's the range, and what's it loaded with?"

I didn't like the sound of that.  I looked at my leg suspiciously, wondering what the hell I had let myself in for.

"The range is three hundred meters from the base unit, although the operator can choose to interrupt that signal at any time. The patch itself is impregnated with histamines."

I breathed a sigh of relief.  Histamines?  No problem. So I'd itch for a while...  Hey, I'd been thinking curare, or strychnine, or something out of an Agatha Christie mystery.

"Bastards..."  Surprised at his outburst, I twisted around to look at Jim.  Why was he so upset about something so... so... _benign_?

"Hey, man, calm down.  I've had hives before."  I smiled at him. "Give me some Benadryl and I'll be fine."

My first clue that this wasn't as simple and benign as I had thought was that Jim didn't smile back. He shook his head and looked at me in that majorly worried way he gets.  "Hives aren't the problem, Chief."  His hands flexed on the table, like they wanted to crawl over and touch me.

Well, hell, I wanted to be touched, but not in front of this bunch.  Okay, no hives...  What else can histamines do?  Oh, shit.  "Anaphylactic shock?"  I'd seen a student rushed to hospital because of a bad reaction to some peanuts.  Her face was swollen and she could hardly breathe by the time they loaded her into the ambulance. Not something to mess around with. I was scared.

"No, not anaphylactic shock."  Petersen looked at me apologetically, then turned away.

"Then what?" I looked at Jim.  Before he could say anything, Sardana spoke to Petersen.

"Give Mr. Sandburg a taste of what will happen if Mr. Ellison does not cooperate with us."

"No!"

Jim's scream startled me.  I jumped up - a huge hand landed on my shoulder and shoved me back down into the chair.  I twisted around, trying to find Jim in the melee at the end of the table.  Then I felt the muzzle of a gun press into the soft spot at the top of my neck and I froze.

"Jim..."  I whispered, and took a deep breath.

Silence immediately settled over the room.

I looked for Jim out of the corner of my eye - no way was I going to move my head.  He was standing still, his hand around Vargas's throat, his face turned toward me.  Suddenly he dropped his hand and slumped into his chair.  Vargas looked at Lauterbach, who shook his head.  Vargas looked like he was going to argue, but then, with a snarl, he stepped back and trained his gun on Jim.

"A quarter dose, I think," said Sardana calmly, looking at his watch as if nothing had happened.  "He will be mobile by the morning."

I was trying to control my fear through my breathing exercises, but they weren't working.  My heart was racing, and I could feel the sweat popping out all over my body. Shitshitshitshit...

"Don't-" Jim began.  I winced as the muzzle pressed harder against me, and he clamped his mouth shut.

"Jim." I breathed his name, barely moving my lips. I hoped he could hear me - I didn't think I could find enough spit in my mouth to talk out loud.  "Stay calm, man, and don't you _dare_ get yourself killed, 'cause I am _really_ gonna need you when whatever it is that's gonna happen, happens.  Please, Jim."

Petersen turned to Sardana, who nodded.  He held up a small remote control unit, and pressed a button. I felt something press into the tender skin on the inside of my ankle, just above the bone.

It tingled for a second or two, and then my world suddenly exploded into huge jagged shards of pain.  Every single nerve and muscle in my leg and foot cramped and spasmed all at once. It felt like my muscles were being flayed from my bones with burning hooks and red-hot wires.

Somehow I landed in a heap on the floor.  I think I screamed.  I don't remember much at this point - just wave after wave of agony coming so fast that I could hardly breathe.  I wanted to pass out, just for a little while, but I didn't.  I thought it would never end.

Gradually, the pain faded enough so that I could actually think about something other than how much I hurt.  I moved a little and opened my eyes in surprise.  Jim was sitting on the floor holding me tightly against him, his face buried in my neck.  He pulled away and I blinked and rubbed my eyes.  They itched and were wet.  Jim reached out and wiped my cheeks gently.  He looked like hell.

"Blair?" he whispered.

"Yeah, I'm here."  My voice sounded like I'd gargled with gravel.  I shifted my leg and the pain hit again.  This time it only lasted a minute, thank god. I held on to Jim like a limpet until it passed; I knew I was bruising him, but he didn't complain - he just held me tighter.

"Have a sip," he said, once the spasms passed, and held a glass to my mouth.  I managed enough to wet my throat.  It felt tender and swollen.

"This really _sucks_, man," I said, resting my head against his chest.  I didn't want to move - I was afraid it would set off another round of cramps.

"You got it, Sandburg."  He settled me carefully against him and started to gently rub my shoulders.  Oh, that felt good...

I looked around the room.  Sardana and Lauterbach were gone.  Guess they got bored with the entertainment.  Petersen was crouched a few feet away, his hands dangling between his knees, looking miserable.  Vargas and Dawson were across the room, guns pointed at us.  I almost laughed.  Like I was a threat to anyone but myself in this condition.

"Mr. Sandburg, we need to get you back to your room," said Petersen. "Do you think you can stand?"

"Oh, yeah," I muttered, "I can stand, and then I'm going to try out for cross-country right afterward."  I shifted my leg gingerly and almost screamed.  God, it was like all the skin had been scraped raw.  I managed to breathe my way through a few cramps and then turned to Jim.  "I think I'm gonna need some help with getting vertical, Jim."

"Okay."  He stood up, trying not to jostle me, then bent over, almost on his hands and knees.  "Put your arm around my neck."

It took a little while - we had to stop when a muscle cramp hit - but eventually I was upright, balancing on one foot, my arm hooked around Jim's neck.  Petersen picked up my boot and moved next to me, and tried to pull my other arm around his shoulders.

"No."  I jerked away, hissing with pain.  "I don't need your help.  We'll do it ourselves."

Petersen didn't press the issue.  It was stupid of me to refuse his help, really, because Jim still wasn't one hundred percent, and it would have made the trip easier.  I just didn't want him to touch me.

After a lot of stumbling and stopping, we finally made it back to our room and I collapsed gratefully onto the bed.  Before Petersen left, Jim turned to him.

"Can we have more towels? I want to use warm compresses on his leg - otherwise he won't be able to walk tomorrow.  And a basin, in case he gets sick."

"I'll see what I can do," he said, then left, locking the door behind him.

Jim sat down heavily on the chair beside the bed and propped his head in his hands.

"Hey," I said, trying to scoot over enough to leave some room, "you need to rest, Jim.  I can just-"

Another spasm hit, but this time it was in my shoulder and neck, around my chest, and down my arm.  Every time I moved, my damn jeans rubbed against my leg, burning like hot lava. I really tried not to scream, but I don't think I was very successful.  Finally the pain let up, replaced by a bone-deep ache, and I simply lay there with my eyes closed, exhausted.

"Chief?"  It was almost a whisper.

"I'm still here, Jim," I said, wishing that it wasn't true.  My throat was sore.  "Can I have some water?"

He held my head while I drank, and then I felt his lips on my forehead.  Ahhh, Jim...  I wanted to grab his face and drag his mouth down to mine, but the thought of moving made me queasy.  In fact, I was getting really nauseous. 

I heard the key in the door lock, and opened my eyes as the door swung open.  Petersen squatted, placing a pile of towels on the floor, along with a plastic bowl.  He stared hard at Jim and me for a second, then stepped back and the door closed.

"Good." Jim got the towels and bowl.  "Warm compresses will help ease the aches."  A little package, like the aspirin samples you get in the mail, slid out from between the towels and fell to the floor.  Jim looked at me and raised his eyebrows, then picked it up.  He cocked his head to one side, as if listening, and held a finger over his lips.

I watched him, curious about the package.  He put down the towels and bowl and showed me: four extra strength ibuprofen.

Interesting.  Maybe we had an ally.

Uh oh.  My stomach lurched and I looked at Jim, panic-stricken.  "Gonna be sick," I warned, and Jim held the basin while I retched.  Luckily, it didn't last long, and he helped wipe my face and got me a glass of water to rinse my mouth.

Jim untied my boot and slipped it off my foot - the sock, too. The feel of my jeans was really starting to drive me nuts.  I fumbled with the zipper, the nerves in my sore arm flaring a little at the movement, but Jim brushed away my hands and undid them, gently tugging them off my legs, making sure they didn't catch in the ankle bracelet.  I bit my lip - damn, that hurt!

"Shorts, too," I muttered as Jim turned away, folding my jeans.  He got them off, and I felt a little better.  At least I didn't feel as if my skin was being chafed all the time.  Of course, now I was cold, so Jim fussed with the sheet and blanket, tying them to the bars on the sides of the bed so that they were suspended over me, not touching.  Modesty wasn't an issue - I was in too much pain to worry about Jim seeing me naked.

"The sensitivity and swelling will pass soon," he said as he worked.  "Then I can give you a massage, or use some warm compresses to relax the muscles.  But you're going to be sore tomorrow, Chief.  Real sore."

Oh, great.

"Sit down and talk to me," I said, trying to get comfortable without moving.  "It'll help take my mind off the ache."

Jim sat down obediently and I smiled at him.  "We're a pair, man.  How many times do you think we've switched off playing nursemaid for each other over the years?"

A smile ghosted his lips, but his eyes remained solemn.  "I'm sorry about this, Chief."  He waved his hand in my direction.

"It's _not_ your fault, Jim.  Not any of it."  I hated it when he assumed responsibility for something he couldn't control.  I mean, how was he supposed to stop them?  They had _guns_, for chrissake.

He didn't say anything - just reached up and ran his fingers over my hair and down my shoulder, barely touching.  I reached out and captured his hand, holding it tightly.

"How'd you know that I'd have this reaction to histamine?  It's not like it's common knowledge."

He looked at our clasped hands resting on the bed and leaned forward, brushing his lips over my knuckles.  Then he straightened up and met my eyes.

"I've seen it used before."

Oh.

I swallowed and tried to shrug nonchalantly without moving too much.  "Covert Ops stuff, right?"

He nodded once.  "Yeah."

I waited a minute to see if he'd say any more, but he just sat there, still as a statue, staring at our hands.  I didn't get the feeling that he was shutting down, though; it was more like he had gotten lost in his memories.  Don't know why I felt that difference - maybe it was because he held onto my hand tightly, like it was important that we be connected.  Maybe I was simply tired and scared, and was trying to make myself feel better.  Whatever.

"How about the ankle bracelet?  I've seen the ones used for house arrest sentences, but nothing like this..."  I moved my leg a little, suddenly conscious of the way the anklet rubbed against my skin, its weight, its _permanence_.  I could feel it getting heavier, growing larger, digging into my skin and muscles and bone...

Stop it!

Dammit, Sandburg, what is the matter with you?  You've endured worse.  Hell, you've _survived_ worse. And at least Jim's here with you...

"Blair?"  Jim cupped my chin in his hand and turned my face to his.  "What's wrong?  Where does it hurt?"

"Everywhere...  No, I'm doing okay."  I tried to smile and wished that I _didn't_ hurt everywhere.  "Just freaking out for a second.  A momentary lapse of reason, y'know?"

Jim nodded solemnly.  "I know."

"About the anklet..."

"I've seen them - the ones that use injections - but I've never had to put one on... anybody." His expression darkened.  "I've heard they are hellishly painful, even before the agent is injected."

"Well, at least they gave me the one with the patch," I said, taking a deep breath.  "It's uncomfortable, but not painful."

"Yeah."  Jim leaned close.  "When you're feeling better," he whispered, "I need to take a good look at it.  Maybe there's a way I can disable it, or get it off you without activating the patch."

"Any time, man...  Any time."

The pain was starting to build again.  Not the agonizing cramps and spasms I had earlier, thank god, but I felt like I'd been beaten mercilessly for days - even the marrow of my bones ached.  At least my skin didn't feel like it was going to curl up and crawl off on its own anymore. Every other part of my body throbbed, though, glowing fires pulsing deep inside.  I twisted on the bed, trying to find a comfortable position.

Jim pulled his hand from mine and stood.  "Getting bad again?"

"It's different..." The pain was making my jaw tight, and it was getting hard to talk.  "Aches...  Burns..."

"I can help."

Jim opened the packet of ibuprofen and carefully inspected each tablet.  He seemed satisfied, and poured more water into a glass, handing me all four of the tablets.  I shook my head, held up two fingers and pointed to me, then him.

He frowned and shook his head sharply.

I just stared at him.

With a sigh, he cupped his hand around mine, closing my fingers around the tablets.  He leaned forward and whispered in my ear, "Please.  I'm doing okay, but you're going to hurt for a while yet.  Your stomach should have settled by now, so they'll probably stay down."

I don't know if it was me being tired and hurt, or if Jim was getting better at emotional blackmail, but I gave in without another word and swallowed all four tablets.  I hoped they would make a dent in the pain that was building in my leg and foot and along my shoulder and arm, but I wasn't holding my breath.

Then, without a fuss, Jim pulled the sheet and blanket free from the bars and tucked them around me, then pushed them away from my right leg, baring it.  I shivered, hot and cold at the same time, and he smiled, placing his hands on my thigh, kneading it gently.

Oh, yeah...

The massage helped a lot, easing the pain until I could relax a little.  Of course, as soon as I got reasonably comfortable, I had to take a leak.  I wouldn't let Jim help me - I had to gauge what I could do on my own.  It took a while, but I finally made it to the bathroom under my own steam.

After I'd finished peeing, I leaned on the sink to rest before starting the long trek back to bed.  Jim appeared in the doorway.

"Want to brush your teeth and have a wash while you're up?" he asked.

"Well..." I eyed the bed longingly, but ran my tongue over my teeth and grimaced.  "There's the small problem of no toothpaste or toothbrush."

Jim reached into his pocket and pulled out a couple of salt packets that had been in the bag with our dinner.  "You'll have to use your finger, but it'll feel better than nothing."

So we stood side-by-side at the sink and brushed our teeth with salt.  I looked at Jim - his face was haggard, the cuts and bruises standing out lividly on his pale skin, his shaven head and jaw ghosted with dark stubble.  I was glad there wasn't a mirror over the sink, because I knew I probably looked as bad as he did.  I grabbed my old tee-shirt and washed my face and chest, but by then the ache in my bones and muscles was building fast, and I knew I'd be lucky to make it back to bed on my own.

Jim ended up half-dragging, half-carrying me back, tipping me into the bed unceremoniously when my muscles balked at climbing in.  I didn't care - he could have carried me over his shoulder, my bare ass shining, dumping me onto the mattress like something out of a bodice-ripper, and I wouldn't have given a shit as long as I could lie down.

I dragged the blanket over me, half-hoping Jim would offer another massage.  I hated to ask him, because I knew he was running on fumes right now, but everything _hurt_ so bad...

"Lift up," he said, pushing the blanket to one side.  I raised my hips a little and he smoothed a towel out beneath me.  "Let's try some warmth."

After soaking another towel in hot water, he wrung it out and plastered it over my leg and foot.  The ache dulled as the moist heat seeped into my muscles, and I heaved a sigh of relief.

"That's good..."

Jim was getting paler and paler.  It scared me, so I made him sit down and rest between changing the compresses.  He didn't want to, but I finally snapped "Jim, if you faint on me, there's no way I could get your sorry ass into bed.  Hell, I can't even get _my_ sorry ass into bed.  Now sit down before you end up playing suck face with the floor."

He smiled and sat down, pulling the chair close enough that I could touch him.  I coaxed him to rest his head on the mattress, stroked his cheek and forehead, and ran my fingers along the curving length of his bare skull.  He relaxed and his breathing deepened.

"Jim," I said, shaking his shoulder.  "Don't fall asleep yet, man.  C'mon, let's get you into bed..."

I pulled off the wet towel, now cooling and clammy, and dropped it on the floor.  Tugging at Jim's shirt, I managed to get him to stand and crawl onto the bed.  Then I carefully maneuvered myself onto my side, facing away, and Jim spooned up behind me.  My muscles protested, but more for form's sake than anything, and I told them firmly to pipe down.  Jim pulled the blanket over us, wrapped his arm around my chest, sighed into my ear, and practically passed out.  I closed my eyes and joined him.

~~~~

My first mistake was to wake up.

My second was to try to move.

Shit.  I felt like roadkill.  Nah.  On second thought, I felt like roadkill that was still being squashed beneath the tires of a fully-loaded semi.

I stopped trying to move.  Hey, even first thing in the morning, Naomi Sandburg's son manages to put two and two together.  Okay, no movement.  I could do that, except that breathing was becoming a problem.  Muscles I never knew I had in my chest began to grumble, then snarl, then scream.  I closed my eyes and tried to relax.

Oops.  Another problem.

What's the first thing I always do when I'm trying to relax?  That's right - take a deep breath.  Only this time when I tried that, my entire body seized up in a gigantic burning, throbbing knot.

Warm fingers skated over my skin, paused, then dug into my thigh muscles.  The pain zipped up off the charts for a second, then quickly fell.  I don't know how Jim knew which muscles were the key to breaking up the pain, but whatever he did worked, and after a few minutes I relaxed enough so that I could breathe normally again.

"What a way to wake up," I said, shifting my legs tentatively.  The ankle bracelet was digging into my skin, a sharp edge somewhere inside pressing painfully against the bone.  I managed to get more comfortable without triggering a spasm.  "Thanks for the massage."

"Sure."  Jim's voice was hoarse but strong, and he sounded like the sleep had done him good.  "How do you feel?"

"Pretty shitty if I stay still.  Really shitty if I move."

"Yeah.  Today and tomorrow are going to be bad, but the soreness will fade after that."

"Thanks for the encouraging update, Jim."

He sighed softly but didn't say anything.  His hand was warm on my thigh, his fingers barely moving over my skin, and I let his warmth soak into me.  In fact, I let it soak in so much that I felt a sudden stirring in my groin, and groaned to myself.  Great timing, Sandburg.  This was _so_ not the time or place to sport a hard-on.

Even though I was in bed with Jim, with his hand on my bare thigh and my naked ass pressed against his crotch.

Sometimes I think God has a really perverse sense of humor.

Jim's fingers stilled.  Oh, great.  He knows.  Just let me die now, please, before he can make any comments about narwhal tusks or table legs.

"Chief?"

I winced.  "Yeah?"  Here it comes...

"If you..."  He stopped and cleared his throat.  "The pain will be more bearable if you can jerk off."

"What?"  I started to twist around, but stopped short as pain flashed through me.  "What did you say?"

"The endorphins," he murmured into my neck, his breath hot, tickling my ear.  "They'll help ease the pain."  His hand moved, smoothing up over my hip.  My cock jerked to attention.  Oh, wow...

"Uh...  Good idea."  I flushed, and it was hard to breathe again.  His other hand moved between us and fingertips delicately brushed the skin at the top of my thighs.  I reached for myself, but he clasped my wrist and pulled my hand up to my chest.

"Let me..."

I closed my eyes and swallowed.  At least, I tried to swallow, but there was about as much moisture in my mouth as on the moon.  He shifted closer, his right hand pressing against my ass, his left running down over my stomach.

For the record, I did _not_ scream when he finally wrapped his hand around my cock and began to pump.  Or when he explored my ass with his fingers.  Or when he nuzzled my neck and whispered into my ear exactly what he wanted to do with me when we had the time, and then what he wanted _me_ to do with _him_...

So I screamed when I came.  It was good, all right? The best.  I mean, I'm not a connoisseur of orgasms or anything, but this one easily made my Top Five list, and if it had occurred under different circumstances, it would have definitely topped out the charts.  It was the Big O.

I couldn't wait to do it again.

Jim got up and wiped me off with a towel while I sprawled on the bed, completely boneless.  My muscles relaxed, the ache faded, and I grinned stupidly up at him.

"Wow, man.  I mean..."  I shook my head, trying to find the word that would perfectly express my emotions.  "Wow."

Jim smiled one of his special smiles - the kind that make you feel like you're blessed - and picked up my shorts and jeans.  "Let's get you dressed while you can still move."

"Sure.  Whatever."  I didn't move, and Jim ended up pulling my shorts up over my feet and legs.  I managed to raise my hips, and he leaned down and kissed my cock before he tugged them up the rest of the way.

"Again?" I asked, praying that he'd say yes.

"Later."  He threaded my feet into my jeans and slid them up my legs.  "When you start hurting again."

I sighed.  "Okay."

He lifted my foot with the ankle bracelet and looked at me, raising his eyebrows.  I nodded, sobering quickly, and propped myself up on my elbows.  It hurt, but I wanted to get a closer look.  Unfortunately, it hurt way too much for me to bend over far enough to see it clearly, so I flopped back on the bed and let Jim figure it out.

"Any ideas?" I whispered.

He frowned and shook his head, gently lowering my foot to the mattress.

While I still felt pretty good, I staggered to the bathroom, peed and washed and put my socks on, then, exhausted, I got back into bed.  Jim was crawling around on the floor, almost under the bed, running his hands over the frame and mechanism.

I didn't say anything - just asked my question with my expression.  What the hell was he doing?

With a preoccupied frown, he gently jiggled something back and forth under the bed.  Whatever it was finally loosened and came free, and he dusted off his jeans and stood.  I looked at his prize - it was a small, flat strip of metal, maybe five inches long and an inch wide, punched with a hole at either end.  It was pretty thin, and didn't look strong enough to be a brace, more like a safety plate that covered some moving mechanism and prevented things from getting caught in it.  He gestured to the ankle bracelet and then made a screwing motion with the metal strip.  I nodded and stuck out my leg.

"Get the damn thing off me!" I breathed, but Jim just shook his head.

"Not yet," he mouthed and put a finger over my lips to stop my protest.  He whispered, "When we have a chance of escape.  I could end up releasing a dose by messing with it, and I want us to be out of here before I try."

He hid the strip down his sock and joined me on the bed. He spooned up behind me, plastering himself to my back.  He made me feel safe, but I knew exactly how much of a fallacy that was.  Jim would do what he could to protect me, but he wasn't Superman, or even Batman.  And I sure as hell wasn't Robin.

"What are our chances of getting out of here?" I whispered, Sentinel-soft.

"Not good," he murmured into my ear.  "I can't even try the lock.  They've got someone with a gun stationed outside the door."

"And our chances of staying alive?"

"Better if we can stay here.  Bad if we end up with Lauterbach."

"Yeah, I kinda figured that.  We got a file on Lauterbach, but who's this Sardana?  Did you find out anything about him?"

"A little," he admitted.  "From what I've overheard, Sardana was once a powerful man in the SNWO.  I guess he got kicked out or left, and now he's trying to regain that power."

"But what's that got to do with you?  Or me?  Or this committee he keeps talking about?"

"It seems his specialty is eugenics.  I'm supposed to provide evidence supporting some theory of his, and the committee will assess that evidence.  I guess if they agree with his findings, he'll be able to regain a measure of power."

"Eugenics?"  I didn't like the sound of that.  "Do you think he could have been part of that group in the 70's who established the breeding camps?"

"Maybe."

"Any guesses about his theory, and why it concerns you and your Sentinel abilities?"

"Not really, Chief."  He paused, his arms tightening around me briefly.  "Someone's coming, and I smell food."

He unwrapped himself from around me and slid off the bed, facing the door.  By the time I managed to roll over, the door was open and Petersen was standing there.  I could see a guy behind him with his gun trained on us.

"Breakfast," he said, putting a large paper bag on the floor.  Then he stepped back and shut the door.

Jim brought the bag over and unpacked it.  Coffee, milk, toast and muffins.  My stomach rumbled, still a little delicate, but definitely interested in toast and milk. Another packet of extra-strength ibuprofen.  I grinned at Jim as I swallowed them - an ally, indeed - at least to some small extent. Finally, he brought out a plastic cup encased in shrink-wrap.  A scribbled note was taped to the outside:  "Ellison's semen sample.  Have this ready to avoid a repeat of the previous collection procedure."

Jim stood there, staring at the cup in his hand, until I gently pried it from his fingers and set it down beside me.  "We'll deal with that later, Jim," I whispered.  "Right now, eat."

He tried to eat - he really did - but he stopped after a few mouthfuls and just sat there, pale and silent.  I didn't blame him.  The poor guy was unnerved by the note.

Well, I figured I could help.

"Jim," I said, setting my toast and milk on the side table, "come here."  I patted the bed next to me.

He grumbled a bit, but sat down obediently.  I shifted carefully, and pushed him onto his back.  With a bit of cautious maneuvering, I managed to prop myself sideways over his thighs, and ran my hand over his crotch.  It would have been easier if I spooned up behind him, like he had to me, but after what had happened to him with Lauterbach and Vargas, I didn't think he'd find that position comfortable.

"Just relax, man." He lifted his head, looking stunned, and I grinned.  "Lay back and enjoy the ride..."

I unzipped his jeans and pulled out his cock.  It was only half-hard, but I figured I could change that.  I'm not going to go into panegyrics about Jim's cock - let's just say that he's perfect and leave it at that, okay?  He responded quickly, even eagerly, to my hands and mouth, and although I wanted to draw it out for a long, long time, and touch him all over and make him writhe and scream with frustration and pleasure, I didn't dare.  I contented myself with bringing him off and getting the sample.

When he was done, breathing hard, with his eyes closed and a faint smile on his lips, I cleaned him up and tucked him back in his jeans, then rested my head on his thighs.  "You okay?"

"Yeah."  He stirred and his hand stroked my head.  I felt his thighs quivering beneath my cheek and rubbed his leg and stomach, easing out the tension from the aftershocks.  It was weird - even though we'd only shared one brief kiss and some mutual masturbation, it felt like we were already long-time lovers.  Maybe that was a function of our being friends first, or because we'd worked so closely together for so long, or something stranger and more mysterious, like fate.  Whatever the reason, I could feel the connection between us strengthen, and pressed a kiss to the inside of Jim's thigh.  With a heave, he suddenly sat up and grabbed me under my arms, dragging me up his body until we were face to face.

His eyes flickered over my face, like he was searching for something, or memorizing my features.  His expression was pretty easy to read - joy and lust and tenderness, all mixed in together.  Then he tilted his head and kissed me gently and everything in the world stopped except for our mouths and tongues and lips pressed together.

By the way, Jim Ellison is one damn fine kisser.

I finally pulled away, afraid of opening the cut on his lip, and wondered if I really was going to come just from kissing him. I shifted until I was more comfortable; it still hurt to move, a fact I'd sort of forgotten in the heat of the moment.  But now my muscles and joints were starting to protest again, and I figured I'd be in some serious pain soon.  I snickered to myself - too bad Jim couldn't jack me off every time the pain got bad...  Nice idea, though.  I wondered if that treatment could be considered a part of holistic healing...

"What are you laughing at, Sandburg?"  Jim glowered and set his jaw, but the look in his eyes told me he was just playing.

"I'll tell you later," I said, crawling off him and swearing under my breath as the aching in my body built and spread.  I collapsed back on the bed.  "How about finishing breakfast?"

The ordeal of the sample over, Jim's appetite had returned.  He handed me my toast, and then managed to polish off everything else we'd been given.

As he was neatly collecting all the trash and putting it in the paper bag breakfast had come in, Jim went still for a moment.  With a nervous look, he leaned forward and whispered in my ear, "Cars. Five or six arriving." He paused, listening.  "Sounds like Sardana's expecting them...  They could be the committee he mentioned."

I nodded, immediately sobered by the reality of our situation.  We had to get out of here - after Jim did whatever it was Sardana wanted him to do in front of the committee, we'd be packed off with Lauterbach, and that thought almost made me shit in my pants.

Cocking his head to the side, Jim reached out and snagged my hand.  "They've turned off the bug," he said quietly.

"Could they be recording us so they can listen later?"

"Maybe."  He shrugged.  "But they're not listening to us right now."  He blinked and turned to face the door, still holding my hand.  "Petersen's outside - he just sent the guard to the other side of the building."  He dropped my hand and grabbed my boots from under the bed.  "C'mon, Chief, I think we might be moving. Let's get your boots on."

The lock snicked and Petersen slipped inside, pushing the door closed behind him and leaning against it, panting softly.

"We've got to move fast if you want to get out of here.  Dr. Sardana will send for you soon, and when he's finished with you he'll give you over to that cold bastard..." He stopped abruptly, squeezing his eyes shut and taking a deep breath. I could practically smell his fear, and I was sure Jim could.

"We're almost ready," Jim muttered as he tugged on my boots, ignoring Petersen's surprised nod.  "How long have we got?"

"Fifteen, twenty minutes.  Unless Dr. Sardana gets carried away with his introductory speech, and then we might have half-an-hour."

I swung my feet off the bed, wincing when Jim hauled me to a sitting position. I wanted nothing more than to get out of that damned room, and _fast_, but first I had a couple of questions for our erstwhile rescuer. "Why are you helping us?  Why should we trust you, especially after what you did to Jim?"

"I am _so_ sorry," he said, his face crumpling like a wet tissue.  "We never planned to hurt anyone...  I don't know what happened.  Dr. Sardana's a _great_ man.  His theories have revolutionized the field of genetics..." He stopped and blushed.  "Anyhow, he's been a different man these past few days - harder, crueler.  It's that Lauterbach person; he's to blame for all of this...  He and Vargas and their crew-"

Jim cut in. "I've been watching and listening to him, Chief. Petersen's been our advocate on a number of occasions." I opened my mouth, but he continued. "Yes, of course that could be part of a test for my hearing, but he can't control his autonomic functions, and they're consistent with his story."

"Okay," I slid off the bed, grabbing Jim's shoulders for support.  "We don't have much of a choice anyhow.  Let's go."

"Wait a second, Chief."  He rounded on Petersen.  "What can we do about the cuff? Have you got the remote?"

Petersen frowned and looked like he was going to cry.  "No. Lauterbach has it."

"Shit.  We've got to get the cuff off him - he can't take another dose."

"Jim," I said, trying to sound a hell of a lot braver than I felt, "let's just get out of here.  We can worry about that later."

"Listen to me, Blair.  The next dose will be worse than the last - a _lot_ worse."  His arms tightened around me and he looked frightened, which scared the hell out of me.  I mean, that first dose was something I'd never want to repeat, and if the second one would be worse...  Well, let's just say that I'd give a lot to avoid that.

"We could try to remove it," Petersen said dubiously.  "But any tampering with the cuff will send an alarm signal to the remote unit, and then Lauterbach would trigger another dose.  I thought we could get away quickly and try to disable it after we were outside..."  His voice trailed off and he blinked forlornly.

Jim took a deep breath.  "Lord, deliver me from well-meaning fools," he muttered into my hair, just loud enough for me to hear.  "It's too dangerous," he said aloud.  "There has to be a way we can block the patch until we can disable the cuff..."

He grunted, a small, satisfied sound, and suddenly hoisted me back onto the bed.

"Jim?"

"Just a sec, Chief," he said, picking up the bag containing our breakfast trash and dumping it onto the floor.  Kneeling, he scrabbled among the wrapping paper, napkins and cups, finally sitting back on his heels and holding up two coffee stirrers and a crumpled and greasy square of waxed paper that had been wrapped around my toast.

"Great, man," I murmured.  "What is this - arts and crafts with Mr. Jimmy?"

"Use your brain, Einstein." He stood and grabbed my foot with the cuff, swinging it around onto the bed.  "I'm going to try to slide the paper between you and the patch..."

"To prevent the dose from reaching the skin," breathed Petersen, shooting Jim an admiring look.  He hovered next to the bed, watching intently as Jim pulled off my boot and sock and examined the cuff.  "The patch is located about here," he pointed to a place on the inside of my ankle.  "There isn't much clearance, though."

Jim pushed the coffee stirrers so that they were lodged between my ankle and the cuff to make some room for the paper. My ankle was still tender and swollen, and it felt like he was carving his way through with a couple of machetes, and not plastic sticks.

"Only you could think of using coffee stirrers as tools, man," I gritted through clenched teeth.  It was hard not to tense up from the pain.

"High praise from the man who foiled a robbery using a fire hose."  Jim patted my knee.  He smoothed out the paper carefully, wiping off the crumbs, and folded it in half.  Then he slipped the paper into the gap between me and the cuff, folding it over the metal to stop it from sliding, and pulled out the stirrers. "Okay, let's go."

We got my sock and boot on in a minute, and I hobbled to the door, half-supported by Jim.  Petersen peered outside, checking the corridor, and gave us the all-clear.

He directed us to the left, toward the loading dock, whispering that the other exits had been blocked.

We made our way down the hallway to the junction, then Jim paused, head cocked.  "Sardana's still giving his introduction, and someone's questioned him.  He's not happy...  I think Lauterbach's there...  There are two guards at the loading dock - one's trying to convince the other to sneak off and get some muffins and a danish before they're all eaten.  Vargas is..."  He paused, his eyes narrowing in concentration.  "Shit."  He grabbed my arm and started around the corner.

"What?"  I stumbled, my knees buckling as pain shot through them.  "What is it?"

"Quiet," Jim muttered. He wrapped his arm across my back and tucked his hand in my armpit, supporting most of my weight for a minute.  I got my feet under me again and looked around for Petersen.  He was following, dog-like, two steps behind.  "He's questioning the guard who was outside our room."

"Damn."  Petersen ducked around me and faced Jim.  "I thought we'd have more time."

"Apparently not."  Jim continued to the next corner, then stopped, listening.  "Someone's coming..."  He looked around and my heart sank.  There was no place to hide in the corridor - we'd have to go back the way we came.

"Hurry up, Chief."  Tightening his grip around me, Jim crossed the hall and jerked open a door.  A utility closet.  He shoved me inside and I grabbed the edge of the sink to steady myself.  Petersen appeared beside me, his face pale in the light that spilled in from the hall, then Jim filled the doorway and the light cut off abruptly as he shut the door.  I blinked, my eyes slowly adjusting to the dimness, and was thankful that a sliver of light from the bottom of the door scoured the dark.  My hand crept up to rest on Jim's shoulder.

"How'd you know this was a utility closet?" Petersen whispered.

"Door opens out," Jim grunted.  "Hinges on the outside."

I grinned to myself.  Only Jim would notice something like that.

"But it could have been-"

"Shhh..."  Jim cut him off and shifted closer to the door, his hand moving to the knob.  His breathing shallowed, his muscles tensed beneath my hand.  Oh god...

The only warning I had before Jim exploded out the door was a whisper, "Stay behind me, Chief."  Then he was half-way across the hall, pushing some eight-foot tall guy into the wall with his forearm across the guy's throat.  I scrambled out behind him, checking the hall for stray goons with guns.  Petersen squeaked something, but I ignored him - the guy Jim had pinned to the wall was trying to whack Jim with his gun on one side, and gouge out his eyes on the other.

I went for the gun side.  Not because I like guns, but because I _don't_ like them - hell if I was going to let him batter Jim with some damn semi-automatic.  And the scariest thing was that I - pacifist from the womb - could actually identify what kind of gun I was trying to wrestle from this guy who had arms like those Scotsmen who fling telephone poles for fun.

I smashed his hand into the wall, once, twice, jerking on the AK-47 until he let go.  Hey, I was under no illusions about my strength - the only reason I got it away from him was that Jim was throttling him and the guy was almost ready to pass out.

Someone screamed, then bit it off quickly.  I stepped back, holding the rifle ready.  Petersen was bent over, gasping, his left hand clutching his right arm, swaying from side to side.  Jim grunted and pressed harder - the big guy's hands smacked the wall, a horrible, fleshy sound, then he made this wheezing noise and slid to the floor.

"Keep your eyes open." Jim dragged the guy over to the closet and shoved him inside, while I had a quick look at Petersen's wrist.  A quick look was all that was necessary - the goon had practically twisted his hand off.

"I think it's broken, Jim."

Jim nodded and gently lifted Petersen's arm.  "And then some.  Listen, we've got to keep moving...  Hang on a sec."  He disappeared into the closet, accompanied by the sound of ripping, and emerged with a couple of long strips from the guy's shirt.  It only took Jim a minute to bind his wrist, but Petersen turned so pale I thought he'd pass out on us.  Jim slapped him lightly on the cheeks.  "Hey, stay with us, buddy."  With a grunt, Petersen blinked and gave him a shaky grin.

"I'll be okay."  He jerked his head in the direction we were going.  "Anyone up ahead, Mr. Ellison?"

Jim looked grim.  "Yeah.  A couple of anyones..."  He glanced at Petersen.  "All the other exits are blocked?"

Petersen nodded.

Jim glanced around.  "Everything?  Windows, hvac vents, emergency exits, fire exits?"

"Everything."

Nodding slowly, Jim turned to me, his face stony.  "Listen to me carefully, Blair.  I want you and Petersen to wait here," he said, gently pulling the rifle from me, his fingers lingering on mine.  When he stepped away, I felt cold.  "When the firing stops, go as fast as you can to the loading dock.  I'll wait for you there.  If I'm not alive," he stopped and looked hard at me, "give yourself up quietly, and tell them that I forced you to escape-"

I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

"Not a _chance_, Ellison," I hissed.  "We get out together, or we go down together."  I turned to Petersen. When Jim grabbed my arm, I ignored him.  "There's got to be some other way out.  What about a boiler room?  A stairwell?  An elevator shaft?"

Petersen's eyes widened.  "The roof!  Dr. Sardana made sure there was access in case he needed to use the helicopter to transport Mr. Ellison..."

Jim's fingers tightened on my arm.  "Hurry.  Vargas is in our room - he knows we've escaped."  The guard's radio crackled, the sound muffled by the heavy door.  "Where's the roof access?  We don't have much time..."

"This way..."  Petersen started out at a run, but screeched to a halt almost immediately, cradling his broken wrist to his chest and moaning.

Jim's jaw tightened and he looked at me bleakly before releasing my arm and coaxing Petersen upright.  "Walk slowly," he said, his voice calm.  "Don't jar your wrist.  Now, where is it?"

Fortunately for us, the roof access was only around the corner, semi-hidden in a small niche.  Unfortunately, it wasn't a staircase or elevator.  No, we three battered excuses for human beings would have to negotiate a ladder with a hatch at the top.  Petersen indicated that the hatch was just latched shut - there was no lock on it.

"You first, Chief," Jim said, hefting the rifle and taking up a position that covered the corridor.  He shot me a concerned glance.  "Get going...  They'll be here soon."

I scrambled up the ladder as fast as my shaking knees and aching muscles would allow, and fumbled with the catch.  I thought, for a breathless minute, that Petersen was lying and that it was locked, but then it gave way suddenly. I flipped the hatch open, almost blinded by the sunlight, and pulled myself up and out onto the asphalt and gravel roof.  Oh, man, it was _cold_ up here.

My arms and legs didn't work for a few seconds - from the strain, probably - and I felt like a fish flopping in the bottom of a boat.  As soon as I could crawl around to the hatch, I leaned over and peered down.

Petersen was half-way up the ladder, his good hand white-knuckling a rung and his bad arm wrapped around another.  His face was pasty and covered with sweat.

God help us, he wasn't going to make it... and Jim would be stuck down there too.

Not if I could help it.

I spread my legs wide for stability and reached down, clinging with one hand on a rung so that I wouldn't land head-first on the floor.  I managed to grab Petersen's arm and, between the two of us sweating and swearing, got him up to the hatch.

I heard a shout and a couple of radios crackling wordlessly, then all hell broke loose down below.  Automatic gunfire crashed and clattered, echoing in the niche.

"Jim!"

A scream was cut off abruptly, replaced with an even more terrible silence.

"Jim!" I whispered, not yet hopeless.  But Petersen was blocking the hatch, and I _had_ to see what was happening. I practically dragged him onto the roof, returning immediately to the hatch.

"Outta the way, Sandburg!"  Jim was almost at the top of the ladder, moving fast.  I rolled to the side and he cleared the hatch, slamming it closed behind him.  He fumbled with the latch. "Find me a pipe, a stick - anything to jam it shut!"

I cast around the roof, but it looked pretty bare, apart from dead leaves and a couple of decaying bird carcasses.

"Over there!" Jim pointed to a vent stack maybe four yards away.  I ran over, looking, I'm sure, like Walter Brennan on a bad day, and picked up a rusty screwdriver some workman had left ages ago.  I tossed it to Jim, and he shoved it into the hasp with a grunt, wedging it closed.

Petersen was lying where I'd left him.  He looked half dead, his face even more sickly in the sunlight.  Jim looked at me, jerking his head toward the large fan and vent stack in the center of the roof.  "We've gotta take cover, Chief.  This won't hold them for long."

I nodded and started toward the stack.  Jim had practically dragged Petersen to his feet and was half-carrying him across the asphalt.  I was surprised that I could move as well as I could - I guess a hefty dose of adrenaline works wonders on those pesky aches and pains, as well as chasing away the chills.

Jim and Petersen were almost at the stack, and I only had about ten yards to go when I started to feel weird.  I mean, really weird.  My leg - the one with the cuff - tingled, and then started to twitch, like I'd developed a huge tic in the whole leg.  I slowed down 'cause walking was really getting difficult.

"Move it, Sandburg!" Jim yelled as he pulled Petersen around the stack.

"Aw, fuck you, man," I muttered, "I _am_ moving it."  But I was getting slower and slower, and my leg was becoming a deadweight.  I didn't know if I could walk for much longer.  Behind me, someone was banging on the access hatch, trying to get it open.

Shit.  They'd be up here in a minute, and I still had five or six yards to go before I could get to cover.

Time to crawl.

Before I could move, Jim appeared, standing there in front of me and looking as scared as I've ever seen him look.

"Let's go, Tiny Tim," he said, suddenly swinging me up in his arms.  I squawked, surprised, but he just gritted his teeth.  "Put your arms around my neck, Chief - you're heavier than you look."

Before I could yell at him - I mean, I didn't need to be carried around like a _kid_ \- we were around the back of the stack and he was setting me down gently.

"Petersen," he said urgently as he knelt and pulled off my boot and peeled off my sock, revealing the cuff.  My leg was twitching and jerking, like I'd been hooked up to the main electrical grid.  "Petersen!"

Sitting propped up by the stack, his head lolling, Petersen looked pretty much out of it.  Jim swung around and shook his arm, but all he did was groan.  With a grimace, Jim slapped his cheeks until he winced and pushed Jim away, complaining.

"C'mon, Petersen."  Jim pulled him toward me.  "Lauterbach's releasing dose after dose from the cuff, and the electrical charge is scrambling Sandburg's nerves.  The paper won't hold for long - you've got to show me how to get it off."

"The sooner the better," I said.  The charge was beginning to really hurt, and the thought of what would happen when the paper began to leak, letting the histamine dose reach my skin... Well, I just hoped that I'd never have to go through that again.

Pulling out the piece of metal he'd salvaged, Jim propped my foot up on his knee.

"Okay, Doc, where do we-"

A burst of automatic gunfire cut him off.

"They've got the hatch open." Grim-faced, Jim stood, mostly sheltered by the stack, and raised the gun.  Petersen and I waited, hardly breathing.  Someone was talking, but I couldn't hear the words.  The sound was muffled, like whoever was speaking was still inside, standing on or near the access ladder.

"I'm listening," Jim said loudly, responding to the voice.  Great.  Normally I'm in favor of negotiations, but as far as I could see, there wasn't much to negotiate about in our case.  Give up and die, probably painfully.  A complete waste of time - unless Sardana and Lauterbach were using the possibility of negotiation to distract us.  Maybe they were waiting for the doses to send me into screaming fits, or maybe they wanted us to stay put, so that someone could...

Shit. What if there was another way up to the roof?

Jim shifted.  "Unacceptable, Lauterbach.  There is nothing more-"  He paused and cocked his head to one side, listening.

I scanned along the roof edges, looking for the top of a ladder, and over the roof itself for another access hatch.  There was something in the far corner, but I couldn't make it out clearly, and I had no idea where my glasses were.

I nudged Jim's leg.  "Possible exterior access ladder, far right corner.  Anyone on it?"

Jim's hand drifted down and rested on my shoulder.  "Just a second," he muttered, then shouted.  "You know that's non-negotiable.  I'd rather kill him myself than allow you to _touch_ him!"  His fingers tightened, and he continued softly, "and then I'd kill myself..."

Oh, Jim...  You sentimental son-of-a-bitch.

He paused, and I could feel his hand shake, tiny tremors that worried me.  The guy was exhausted.  He'd been to hell and back, and was reaching the end of his rope. "Someone's coming around the outside of the building..."  His voice was raspy and shook like his hands.

"Okay, Jim. Ease back a little.  I'll keep my eyes open-"  My throat suddenly cut out as a blistering line of fire shot up my leg.  No.  No, please, god...

I must've yelled when the pain started, 'cause Jim dropped to his knees beside me and grabbed my foot.  The rifle clattered to the asphalt.  "Petersen!  It's seeping through!"

They huddled together, talking softly.  I tried not to squirm, but I was beginning to _hurt_ again.  Breathe, breathe...  Oh, man, this is _so_ not what we needed right now.

Jim was muttering something to Petersen as he worked on the cuff.  Petersen shook his head and shifted closer, pointing.  His finger touched my skin, and I jumped.  Damn, it was like he'd drawn a knife blade down my ankle.  Jim's touch was different somehow - it ached more than hurt, or something.  I don't know - everything was starting to blur together into one sickly, throbbing mess.  Lauterbach shouted something, but Jim ignored him.  I wondered how Jim could keep a hold on the metal strip with his hands shaking like that, and then an outer piece of the cuff was suddenly off.  He held it up triumphantly.

"Almost there, Chief."

I grinned at him, even though my face felt like each and every muscle had decided to move independently and not pay any attention to my wishes. And then, out of the corner of my eye, at the edge of the roof, I saw movement.

I don't know why I didn't say something to Jim, why I didn't just let him know what I'd seen so that he could pick up the gun, aim it and fire it.  On second thought, maybe I do know why...

Instead, I grabbed the rifle, willing my throbbing fingers to hold it carefully, turned and fired the damn thing at the man who was half-way onto the roof.  I didn't even aim it - I just scooped it up and let 'er rip.

It was like one of those slow motion action sequences in a movie.  The bad guy climbs up to the roof on the ladder.  The cop's partner sees him and fires the gun, shell casings raining down around him.  The bad guy pauses dramatically for a few seconds before falling backward off the roof, his screams cut short. The partner stares at the gun in shock, finally dropping it from nerveless fingers.

What have I done?

"Sandburg!  Sandburg!"  Jim's voice finally registered and I looked at him, blinking fast, as if even my eyes hurt.  "Later, Blair.  Deal with it later.  Right now-"

Another wave of fire raced over my body, and my muscles jerked and twitched uncontrollably.  I couldn't breathe.  My throat muscles spasmed, and I started to choke.  Pain ringed my ankle, spreading up my leg to crash over my groin and claw its way into my gut.

Jim's face appeared in front of me, his mouth moving silently. He waved something, but it was all blurry and I couldn't tell what it was. I squeezed my eyes shut and the noise built, pounding, pulsing, roaring through me, shaking me to the core.  My eyes flew open to the sight of nothing but a couple of yards of blue plaid flannel, and the noise continued.

Oh... My brain finally made sense of what I was seeing and hearing. Jim had pulled me up against his chest and wrapped his arms around me, and I was listening to his heartbeat.

"We got the cuff off, Chief," he said, his arms tightening around me for a second.

"Great..."  At least, that's what I tried to say.  It didn't quite come out that way, though.  More of a grunt.

Jim shifted suddenly and I heard the sound of a car accelerating.  "The other two guards are leaving...  One's saying that Lauterbach's nuts and is going to get them killed, and the other's agreeing with him."

"Where's Lauterbach?"  Good.  At least my mouth was working again, even though the rest of me felt like one giant throbbing bruise.

"Still downstairs.  He's moving around, dragging something..."  Jim shook his head.  "I can't tell what it is."

"Sardana?"

"He's trying to keep the others calm and is asking them to stay in the room.  He sounds nervous, like he knows something's up."

"Gotta get going," I mumbled, suddenly exhausted.  My bare foot was pretty much frozen, and I twisted around, scrabbling for my sock.  Jim found it and pulled it on, then tugged on my boot.  Petersen was sitting with his back against the vent stack, cradling his wrist.  He looked absolutely whacked.

"Good idea, Chief."  Jim unwrapped himself from around me and stood, then helped me get vertical.  It was not a silent process.  "We need to get down the exterior ladder while Lauterbach's still inside."

With a groan, Petersen nodded and scrambled to his feet.  "Then what'll we do?  Lauterbach's not going to just let us go..."

Jim raised his head and breathed deeply.  "Shit."  He grabbed the rifle and tucked his other arm around me.  "C'mon.  You're right.  He's pouring something around inside - it smells kind of like gasoline, or..."

"He's going to set fire to the building?" Petersen asked.

"Yeah."

Without another word Petersen turned and started toward the ladder.  Jim and I followed.  Well, sorta.  I was trying to walk, but my joints were seizing up like ungreased bearings.  Muscles, nerves, nothing was working right - hell, nothing was working at _all_, and Jim was practically dragging me across the roof.  Our speed sucked.  A turtle on crutches would have beaten us.

"Shit," Jim muttered, and then a hollow 'whoomp' burst out of the access hatch, along with about thirty feet of flames and a huge billow of smoke.

"Oh, shit," I echoed, and tried to move faster.

"Sorry, Sandburg," was the only warning I got before Jim stopped and slung me unceremoniously over his shoulder.  Dammit.  I _hate_ being carried.  But since I preferred life over death, I kept my mouth shut and tried not to scream as every muscle in my body decided to check in with the news that _I_ _was_ _in_ _pain_.

The building shook as we reached the edge of the roof - Lauterbach must've had some serious explosives squirreled away in there.  Jim put me down carefully, but my knees collapsed as my feet hit the ground, and I landed hard on my ass.

"Fuck," I growled, and levered myself up, using the retaining wall around the roof as a prop.  Jim had slung the rifle over his shoulders and was already on the ladder, reaching for me.

"Hurry..."  His hand quivered and I could see what little color he had drain from his face.  "My god," he whispered, like he was praying.

"What?"  I grabbed his hand and held on, even though in my condition, I couldn't have done a damn thing to stop us both from falling.

"Lauterbach must have locked the door on Sardana and the others," he said.  "They're trapped."

"Oh, man..."  The thought made my stomach turn, and bile bit the back of my throat.

Jim swallowed hard and his hand shook in mine.  "They're screaming, Chief...  Screaming and pounding on the door..."

For once I was grateful that I didn't have Sentinel senses.  No way would I want to hear _that_.  But Jim looked like he was starting to lose it, and we didn't have time to do encounter group stuff.

I turned his face and met his eyes.  So much pain...  "Turn down your hearing, Jim.  _Now_!  There's nothing we can do for them until we get down from here."

He nodded and helped me onto the ladder.  The cold of the metal rungs bit into my fingers.  "We don't have time to rig up a tether, so you're going to have to hold on," he said, sounding a little more in control.  "I'll be on the rung below you, in case you slip.  Just try not to kick me."

"I'll do my best."  I glanced down.  It wasn't that far - maybe thirty feet.  I was glad to see that Petersen was almost at the bottom of the ladder.  The building was lined with old, rusty dumpsters, and I thought I saw... Well, yeah, of course it would be there.  The body, I mean.  Of the man I killed.

"Breathe, Sandburg.  And take a step down."  Jim's voice was calm, dispassionate.  It was an order.  I could do orders.  So I breathed, and I stepped down.

"Good.  Another."  I moved. The wind was picking up, slicing through my shirt and jeans.  Jim's body was warm behind me.  "Another."

I heard a muffled scream, and then Petersen's voice.  "I'm down."

"Good," Jim called.  "Get the gun-"  There was a sharp crack of an explosion, and the building shook again.  My hands, cold and not working too well, slipped, and I crashed against Jim.

Shitshitshit.

I scrabbled at the ladder, trying desperately not to knock Jim off.  He pressed up against me, solid and unmoving.  A rock.  A fucking granite _mountain_.

"Steady, Chief.  I've got you."

Damn straight you do, man.  You've got me for good.

"I'm okay," was what I said, clinging to the ladder like a limpet.  Maybe I'd just stay here for a couple of centuries.  I could do that.

"Another step, Blair," he coaxed, and I sighed.  And took another step, of course.

We were about level with the top of the dumpsters when the ladder ended, maybe eight feet from the ground.  Jim dropped off first, and I waited, trying to convince my protesting body that just letting go right now was not, ultimately, a Good Idea.

"Okay, Chief."

I landed pretty softly, considering that the ground was paved.  Of course, Jim took most of the force of my fall, but I was really shaky as he helped me up.

"Petersen?" he called softly.  There was another boom inside the building, and Jim pulled me back a step.  "He must be ahead of us.  Let's go, Chief."

I raised my head and saw the body.

Like I suspected, it was Vargas.  Him.  The man I had killed.  He looked dead, all right.  His jacket had a couple of holes in it where the bullets had entered, and there was a thin trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth, snaking down to disappear into his hair, and then drip into a small patch on the asphalt.

"Blair?"

"Later, man." I looked at him and shrugged.  "I'll deal with it when I'm warm and don't feel like I've been rolled naked down a mountain."

Jim tensed a second before I heard the voice.

"Please don't move, Mr. Ellison.  I have Mr. Sandburg in my sights."

Lauterbach.

I froze, hardly daring to breathe.  When I say I froze, I mean I tried not to move, but my body just kept shaking, and my knees started to go again.  Jim's arms tightened around me, keeping me upright.  I could feel the rifle where it was slung on his back, but there was no way for him to get to it.

We were hosed.

"We have had a change of plans, gentlemen," he said, his voice much closer.  "Dr. Sardana and his colleagues are busy dying, if they are not already dead, and it is time for you to accompany me."

"Let Sandburg go and I'll cooperate," Jim said, his voice harsh.

"No!"  The word was out of my mouth before I knew it.  "No fucking _way_, Ellison," I whispered.

"No, I think not," Lauterbach said calmly.  "There is much I wish to learn about your senses, Mr. Ellison, and I believe Mr. Sandburg will be instrumental in providing the proper... motivation.  Dr. Sardana and Dr. Petersen never understood your potential-"

There was a pop, a groan, then a burst of gunfire.  I was falling, I couldn't stop, more gunfire, a scream, a curse, I hit the ground hard and lay there, stunned.

I blinked.  Jim was kneeling over me, the rifle in his hands.  I could hear a magazine being emptied and more curses, but Jim wasn't firing his gun.  And he wasn't being riddled with bullets, either.  I rolled over enough to see Lauterbach sprawled on the ground with Petersen standing over him, firing burst after burst.  He was cursing and crying as he fired, and Lauterbach's body jerked as the bullets hit.

Finally the magazine emptied and Petersen lowered the gun, still cursing.  Jim rose and walked over to him, pulling the gun away.  His face all streaked with tears, Petersen finally looked at Jim.  "He locked them inside.  I couldn't get to him.  I couldn't save him..."  He lowered his head and nodded at Lauterbach's body.  "It was all _his_ fault.  All of it."

I heard sirens, then. Jim left Petersen still staring at Lauterbach, and squatted down beside me, running his hand down the side of my face.

"C'mon, Chief. How about we go meet the cavalry?"

I grabbed his arm.  "Works for me, man."  Jim's fingers were warm on my cheek, but the rest of me was getting _so_ cold.

He eased me up, holding me tightly against him.  "Let's see if we can find something to warm you up."

Truck engines roared, and the wail of the sirens built, then stopped abruptly as we made our way slowly along the side of the building.  When we got to Petersen, Jim touched his arm.  "C'mon. He's not going anywhere."  Petersen nodded and turned, walking beside us.

Well, Jim and Petersen were walking.  I was half-limping, half-stumbling. I guess the adrenaline was wearing off, 'cause the pain was spiking, and all my joints were out on injured reserve.  My damn knees started to buckle on me again, and Jim grunted as I sagged against him.

A couple of uniforms ran around the corner, guns drawn.  "Police!" they yelled.

"Ellison, Cascade PD!" Jim yelled back.  "I've got two injured men here."

The officers paused, and then I heard a familiar voice.

"They're back here!"

I never thought I'd feel like crying at the sound of Simon's voice.  And if Jim ever tells him a few tears leaked out, the man is dead meat.  Seriously.  It wouldn't matter that it happened because I was exhausted and in pain; Simon would dine off the story for _years_, and I _so_ don't need that.

"Simon!  Get an ambulance - Sandburg's injured, so's Dr. Petersen."

He was there beside us in a second - the man obviously broke a couple of land speed records with that dash.  I almost laughed at his expression when he got a good look at Jim.

"Jim...  What the hell happened?  What the hell did they do to your _hair_?"

"Later, Sir.  Sandburg needs immediate medical attention."

Simon stared at us.  "And what about you, Jim?"

"I'll keep for the moment."

Things got kind of confusing for a while.  Between them, Simon and Jim got me away from the building and over to the EMTs.  Two ladder trucks were pouring water on the fire, and half-a-dozen police cars were pulled up, lights flashing.  I was strapped to a gurney in the ambulance and drifted a bit, I guess.  Petersen was huddled in the corner, moaning as they worked on his wrist.  I couldn't see Jim, but when I called his name, he appeared.

"What's the matter, Sandburg?"

"Nothing.  Just wondered where you were."  It was getting hard to talk again because of the spasms in my neck and jaw.  Jim gave my shoulder a quick pat.

"We'll leave for the hospital in a minute," he said, sitting on the floor beside me.  I reached out and rubbed his bare head.  It felt weird and looked weirder, but it was just hair.  It would grow back.

The EMTs came back and insisted on strapping Jim onto the bed across from me, despite his protests.  Petersen had disappeared.  Maybe he was going to the hospital in another ambulance, or a squad car.  I closed my eyes as the ambulance started off, hoping, like before, that the trip wouldn't take too long.

~~~~

This time it didn't, thanks to a siren, and, I heard later, a combined Seattle-Cascade PD escort.  We'd been held in the outskirts of Seattle, and were rushed to Evergreen Hospital's emergency room.  All I remember once we got to the hospital is hurting like hell, having the dry heaves, and wishing they'd turn off the lights.  That, and Jim's voice.  I couldn't hear what he was saying, but whatever it was, he didn't sound pleased. Suddenly a doctor popped into the cubicle where they'd stuck me and started his list of questions about who I was, and what was the problem, and how did it happen...

I tried to answer as clearly and concisely as I could, but every couple of words my jaw would seize up or my leg would cramp, and I'd try to breathe through it, but my stomach hurt and my chest ached and I just wanted it to _stop_.

The doctor lifted my hand and I almost screamed as the pain zipped up my arm and into my neck.  "Does this hurt?" he asked, and then all hell broke loose.

Jim came flying in, his shirt half-off, and grabbed the doctor's arm, jerking him across the cubicle.

"I _told_ you not to touch him!" Jim said, almost growling.  "I _told_ you what he's been given and how he's reacting, and what treatment he needs _right_ _now_!"  He shook the doctor's arm, and even though the guy was a couple of inches taller than Jim, he looked scared.

"Mr. Ellison!"  An older doctor with a no nonsense air stood in the doorway.  "Get back to your bed and let Dr. Conley do his job.  I haven't finished with you yet."

Jim shot her a glance that could have melted the ice-caps, but she simply crossed her arms.  "The sooner you allow Dr. Conley to work, the sooner your friend will receive treatment."

"Dr. Conley is wasting time and making my partner suffer unnecessarily," Jim said, turning his glare on the guy in his grip.  "I've told him what happened, and he said he doesn't believe me."  Another shake made the doctor yelp.

"Hey, calm down.  It's okay, Jim," I forced out.  Another wave hit me, and I closed my eyes and kinda zoned until it passed.  When I opened them, Jim was sitting beside me, his face pale.

"The histamine was administered via a transdermal patch?" the woman was asking, writing on a chart. Jim nodded and gave me a shaky grin.  I couldn't see the other doctor anywhere.  Good.  He was a jerk anyway.  She continued, "Do you know the concentration or the amount administered?"

"No, but Petersen might.  He was brought in with a shattered wrist."

She nodded and made another note.  When she noticed me looking at her, she smiled.  "Mr. Sandburg, my name is Dr. Bryant.  Your partner has filled me in on the basics of what happened to you two.  I'm going to give you Toradol and Flexeril - a pain reliever and a muscle relaxer - that should ease your symptoms for a while.  You'll also need Phenergan for the nausea and stomach acid, so you can keep the medicine down."

I nodded that I understood.  Talking took too much effort right then.  I was shaking pretty badly, so she asked Jim to hold my arm steady while she gave me the injections.  I did manage to swallow the meds, but I couldn't hold the cup, and she had to put the tablets into my mouth.

When she was finished, she nodded at Jim.  "All right, Mr. Ellison, it's your turn now.  I'll give Mr. Sandburg a once-over when the medication has taken effect."

Jim gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze as he stood.  "Yes, Doctor," he said, smiling at her, turning on some of that famous Ellison charm.  "See you in a bit, Chief."  He disappeared out the door.

"Doctor," I croaked.

"Yes?"  She pulled the blanket up a little, tucking it around my shoulders.

"Be gentle with him.  He's been through hell the past few days."

She smiled at me and patted my arm.  "I'll be very gentle, I promise."  Her smile faded.  "I've worked with more victims than I care to admit, and I'll make sure he maintains his dignity during the exam."

"Thanks."  I closed my eyes again. The medication was starting to work - the cramps and shakes were easing, and my muscles grew heavy and soft.  God, it felt good to relax.

~~~~

Jim woke me up a while later.  His face and hands were clean, and he was wearing hospital pajamas and a robe.

"How're you doing, man?" I asked, rubbing my eyes and yawning.  I winced as my muscles protested, but at least nothing seized up or cramped.

"Good.  Nothing that a few days rest won't cure," he said easily.  "They want me to stay overnight for observation.  The Doc says she needs to check you out now.  Think you're up for it?"

"Yeah."  I blinked up at him.  "You sure there's no permanent damage? I mean, they were pretty rough with you."

His mouth twisted in a wry grin.  "Well, I'm going to look like a rainbow for a week or two as the bruises heal, but the cuts aren't infected.  It's too late for stitches, but she thinks most of them won't scar."

I hesitated for a second, but I had to know.  "And the tears... where they..."

His pasted-on smile looked as brittle as mica, and there were shadows in his eyes, but he answered readily.  "I'm doing okay.  I'll need to watch my diet for a couple of days and use an antibiotic cream to prevent infection, but I didn't need stitches."

I let out a sigh of relief.  "Good."

Then Dr. Bryant came in and took charge.  She let Jim stay while she examined me.  The two of them seemed to have come to some understanding, and I wondered what had been said during Jim's exam.

Knowing Jim, I'd never find out.

"Well, Mr. Sandburg," she said, pulling off her gloves, "I'm going to keep you two here tonight for observation, but tomorrow you can go home.  Fortunately, once the histamine is out of your system, you should be fine.  Unfortunately, it will take a couple of weeks before you will be pain-free and can move easily."

"A couple of weeks?"  I couldn't believe it.  "Nah, that can't be true!  Jim?"

He nodded.  "I'm afraid so, Chief."

"Shit."

"Exactly, Mr. Sandburg."  There was a knock, and Dr. Bryant went to the door, returning with a pile of clothes.  "We have no option but to let it run its course.  All we can do is treat the symptoms with analgesics and muscle relaxers, and prescribe some physical therapy to prevent muscle tone loss in the interim."

"But I don't have _time_ for this!"

"No one does," she said, putting the clothes on the table next to me.  "You can change into these, and I'll check if any rooms are available yet."

"This sucks, man," I muttered.  Jim helped me into the pajamas and robe, and wet a paper towel so I could run it over my face.  I felt like the floor in a movie theater, all sticky and gritty, but I didn't think I could manage a shower.  Oh well, there are worse smells in a hospital than unwashed anthropologist.

It took a couple of hours of waiting around, but we finally got settled in a room.  I don't know how Simon engineered it, but we got one of the rooms in the private, for-rich-folk wing.  It looked like a hotel room, except that the beds had bars on the sides and there was no honor bar.  I appreciated the gesture - it was about as different from the place we were held as you could get in a hospital.

Simon came in after we'd finished dinner.  He looked like he hadn't slept in days. He sat down heavily in one of the chairs and grinned at Jim.

"I never thought I'd say this, Ellison, but I'm glad to see your ugly mug."

"Thanks, sir.  The feeling's mutual."

Simon turned and looked at me - his smile disappeared.  "_You_, however...  Do you _know_ how much trouble you caused when you slipped out of the station?  Taggart and Connor spent _hours_ trying to track you down!  And then when I _finally_ got your note and we found out what you did..."  He paused and slowly shook his head.  "Sandburg, if you ever do _anything_ that stupid again I will personally-"

"Captain!"  Jim cut him off abruptly.  "Don't.  If Sandburg _hadn't_ come after me, I'd probably be dead now."  He glanced at me, his fingers restlessly pleating the blanket.  "Or praying that I was."

Simon was silent for a minute.  He looked at Jim, then me, then back at Jim.  "I was there when Petersen was questioned.  He told us how Sandburg barreled in and started issuing orders, how he forced them to unhook you from the machines."  His voice dropped and he rubbed his forehead.  "He told us pretty much everything."

It felt like my heart skipped a beat. "Everything? What about Jim's senses?  What did he say about them?"

"Nothing.  He didn't mention them at all."

"Then what reason did he give for kidnapping Jim in the first place and running those tests on him?"

With a dry chuckle, Simon sat back.  "Because he was the best.  Honor student, decorated soldier from an elite unit, most successful detective in the region - a perfect specimen."

I shivered at his words.  'Specimen.'  Not a human being with a job and a life, but a specimen, an object of study.  It had almost come true.

"Jim, did you ask Petersen not to say anything?"

"No." Jim slowly shook his head. "He did it on his own."

"That's another thing we have to thank him for."

Jim nodded.  "Speaking of thanks, Captain, both of us want to thank you for coming after us."

"We were almost too late," Simon said with a snort.  "No thanks are necessary."

"How did you discover where we were?"

"I called Jack Kelso, and he managed to put together a list of possible suspects.  Then I called the Morgans and with their help we narrowed it down to half-a-dozen likely candidates.  We put them all under surveillance, and when three of the suspects on the short list met this morning, we followed them.

"We contacted the Seattle PD when the suspects left our jurisdiction, and they were very cooperative, especially when they heard that two of our own had been kidnapped."  I must've looked surprised, because Simon solemnly nodded. "Yeah, Sandburg, you heard right."

"Thanks, Simon.  That means a lot to me."

His eyes narrowed and he shook his finger.  "But don't think this gets you off the hook for sneaking out on us."  He paused and then sighed.  "Anyhow, we tracked them to the building - it was a biotech firm that had gone bankrupt - but we didn't know if you were in there, and we couldn't get close enough to find out because of the guards.  It wasn't until those two pieces of muscle came barreling down the drive, hell-bent for the horizon, that we knew we were in the right place."

"They talked?" Jim asked.

"They didn't just talk, they squealed like pigs on a stick and tried to cut a deal."

"What did they know about Jim?"

"Not a lot," Simon admitted.  "Only one of the guys had even seen you two, in some sort of conference room."  Jim glanced at me and nodded.  Dawson.  Simon shifted and took a deep breath.  "He told us what happened with the ankle cuff...  It sounds like you had a pretty rough time of it, kid."

I shrugged.  "It's not something I want to repeat, that's for sure."

"Yeah. I hear you.  We were still questioning those two goons when we heard the explosion and saw the smoke, so the Seattle PD called out the fire trucks and we came in together.  They've insisted on posting an officer outside your door, by the way.  I think it's as much for honor as for protection."  He stood and rubbed his eyes.  "And now I've got a two hour drive back to Cascade and a bed at home that's calling my name.  I'll check with you two tomorrow when you get back."

We called out our thanks as he left, and I dozed off again.

Murmuring voices and soft sobbing woke me up.  I stretched and groaned, feeling every square millimeter of my body ache.

"Hey, Chief," Jim said.  "Have a good nap?"

I just grunted as I tried to maneuver myself into a more comfortable position.

"We have a visitor," he continued, and I looked up.  Cynthia was sitting in the chair beside Jim's bed, dabbing her eyes. She gave me a wavery smile.

"Hi, Blair.  I..."  Her voice trailed off and she squeezed her eyes shut.  Jim reached out and patted her hands.  He looked as brittle as glass, ready to shatter at the slightest touch.

"It's okay, Cyn.  It wasn't your fault.  I know that, and Sandburg knows that." His voice was husky.

"Yeah," I piped up.  "Sardana had some sort of plan to return to power, and Jim was a convenient pawn."

"You see?" he said, rubbing her shoulder.  "You did your best to deflect their interest, but it didn't work out that way."

She nodded and pinched her lips together, trying to regain control.

"How'd you find out we were here?" I asked.

"Detective Taggart - the one who had phoned me yesterday with the list of suspects - called and told us that you both were safe and here at Evergreen."  Her voice grew calmer and stronger as she spoke.  "The St. Francis Center is only a couple of blocks away, so Neil insisted that I come and see how you were.  Captain Banks vouched for me, so the officer on duty allowed me in."

"How is Neil?"  I could guess the answer from the bleak look on her face.

"He's getting weaker."  She glanced at Jim and then stared off into the distance.  "The doctors say he only has a few days."

"I'm sorry."

She nodded and gave me a tentative smile.  "Thank you."  Rising from the chair, she leaned over and kissed Jim's forehead.  "I must get back. I know Neil is anxious to know how you're doing."

Jim caught her hand as she turned.  "If I get the chance, I'll stop by tomorrow before we return to Cascade.  Tell Neil I'll do my best."

"You always do, Jim."  She held his hand in hers for a second, then turned and walked out.  Jim was quiet, and I could tell he was listening to her as she left the hospital.

"Sorry I was asleep," I said when he finally turned to me.  "I just keep dropping off."

"That's okay.  You're exhausted and hurting and your body needs rest."

"Maybe," I grumbled.  "But you manage to stay awake."

He shrugged.  "It'll take me a couple of days before I can relax.  Then I'll probably sleep for a week straight."

I looked at him, wondering if I dared ask.  Well, why not?  "This kind of thing has happened to you before, hasn't it?"

He gave me a weird look and I half-expected him to change the subject, but he just leaned back against the pillows and nodded.  "Not exactly the same, but yeah, there were certain similarities."

"You want to talk about it?"

"Maybe one day," he said, very, very quietly, "but not now."

I fell asleep again, only to wake up to the sight of Jim being given a sponge bath by this cheerful, grandmotherly woman with a strong Jamaican accent.  She treated him like a recalcitrant two-year-old (which was how he was acting), and it was all I could do not to laugh.  She clucked and fussed over his cuts and bruises, scolded him when he tried to pull away from the washcloth, and was totally unaffected by the Ellison Glare-of-Death.

I loved her.

But I didn't even crack a smile until she smacked his hand for trying to pull the sheet over his groin while she was washing him, saying "You think you've got something so special, then, you got to keep it hidden?  Well, I got news for you, boy - you're not gonna win a prize for _that_."  I lost it.  I laughed, and then groaned because it hurt, and then laughed when Jim growled at me, and ended up holding my stomach and wiping my eyes.

"You are dead meat, Chief," he said, trying for intimidating, but I could see the corners of his mouth twitch.

"Oh, man, Jim, don't _do_ this to me."  My belly hurt and my arms hurt and my legs hurt, and all I could do was snigger helplessly and moan.

"Just wait 'til it's _your_ turn," he threatened, but she was washing his face then, and he ended up with a mouthful of soapy washcloth.

"That's what you get for sassin' your friend," she said, handing Jim a glass of water to rinse out his mouth.  "You're not foolin' no one with your tough words and stern looks.  Now jus' settle down an' behave, 'cause I don't need your larks."

He shot me a glance that could have crisped asbestos, but he didn't give her any more trouble.

Jim grinned when she started in on me, but man, it felt so good to be clean again that I didn't make a sound.  She was really gentle, and it didn't hurt much. It didn't take long before I was clean and dry and back in my pajamas, she even patted my knee and told me I was a 'fine boy.'  She made me feel like I was six, but I didn't mind.

"Feel better?" Jim asked after she left, shifting onto his side to face me.

"Yeah."  I moved experimentally and winced.  "I think."

"It's about time for your meds."

"Good.  I think they're starting to wear off."  I paused.  "It's really going to take a couple of weeks before I'm back to normal?"

"'Fraid so."

"Jim?"

"Yeah?"

"This morning when you... you know, made me feel better..." Oh god, what was I saying?  I took a deep breath and plowed on.  "Well, it _really_ made me feel better."

"Good.  It was supposed to."

"I thought...  That is..."  Oh, c'mon, Jim, help me out here...  "It worked as well as, or better than, the meds, and I thought - maybe - you could help me out again.  Sometime. If you don't mind.  Much."  Jeez, what is the matter with me?  I'm panting like I've run a race.  "I mean, I could do it myself, y'know, that's no problem, but it was better - a lot better - when you helped."  It ended up a whisper.

Jim was silent for a minute.  "I wasn't pretending when I said - what we _both_ said - yesterday," he started slowly.

"I wasn't either," I interrupted.

"_Sand_burg, gimme a chance here," he said.

"Sorry."

"I meant what I said, Chief."  He smiled.  Well, he did more than just 'smile' - he looked shy and hopeful and bashful and so damn _sexy_ \- even with cuts and bruises and a bald head - that I wanted to jump his bones right then and there.  Not that I could, at that point, but it was the thought that counts.  "I want you, too, but it's going to have to wait.  The nurse is coming with your meds, and I'd really like some privacy the next time."

"Okay."  I gave him a grin as the door opened and the nurse appeared.  "I can wait.  I just wanted to make sure you knew I was still interested."

"Oh, yeah," he breathed.  "Ditto."

The nurse gave me another shot of Toradol and Jim was allowed some Tylenol, and then we settled in and turned out the lights.

"G'night, Jim," I murmured, already half-asleep.

"G'night, John-boy," he said with a chuckle.

"Aw, man, you are so _weird_, sometimes."

"Now there's a case of the pot calling the kettle black."

"Go to sleep, Jim."  The last thing I remember is smiling into my pillow.

~~~~

It was _not_ a good morning.

Not to belabor the point, but every single fucking cell in my body hurt, including the tips of my hair and the backs of my eyeballs.  The Toradol and Flexeril helped, but there was a really bad half-hour when I woke up, before my next dose of meds.  I begged Jim to kill me, but he just called for the nurse, instead.  Some partner _he_ is.  Then he came over and held my hand until the nurse appeared and gave me the pills and injection.

We'd finished the whole breakfast and getting washed routine, and I had crawled gratefully back into bed, when the door opened and a tall, rangy woman walked in.

"Detective Ellison, Mr. Sandburg?  I'm Detective Constance Bright of the Seattle PD." She shook our hands and sat down beside Jim, taking out a small notebook.  "I'm in charge of investigating your abduction and I need to ask you some questions to confirm Dr. Petersen's statement."

She walked Jim and me through the past two days, filling in gaps and clarifying points that had been unclear.  The longer it continued, the quieter Jim became, like he was cloaked in stillness.  He didn't refuse to answer or explain, and Detective Bright probably didn't even notice the change in him.  But I did.  I knew what he was doing; he was assuming the responsibility and accepting the guilt for every injury, every death, that took place over the past two days.  It was stupid, it was infuriating, but it was _so_ Jim Ellison.  I wanted to shake him until his teeth rattled, and I wanted to hold him so tightly that no one could tell where I left off and he began.

We'd reached the point where we were up on the roof of the building, with Jim and Petersen trying to get the cuff off me.  Jim explained how I was propped up against the stack, writhing and biting back screams, as they worked.  His face was calm, but I could see the tremors in his hands as they rubbed the blanket, over and over.

Bright turned to me.  "And this was when Vargas climbed up onto the roof and you shot him?"

Jim's fingers jerked and clenched into a fist.  I nodded, ignoring the way my heart sped up.

"Yeah.  I could see someone coming up the ladder.  I couldn't see his face, because I lost my glasses, but thinking back, I knew it was Vargas.  I guess I recognized his hair and the way he held himself.  And he had an enormous rifle.  Jim and Petersen were pretty much facing away, and were concentrating on the cuff." I shifted, the ache building in my bones, and continued.  "I picked up the rifle and fired it.  I wasn't really aiming, because I couldn't see very well, and because the pain made it difficult to hold it and fire accurately."

She nodded and made a note.  "You're an observer, aren't you, Mr. Sandburg?  Not an officer."

"That's right." I glanced at Jim, suddenly worried.  Would they have his ass because I killed a man?

Then it hit me.  It's not like I had forgotten it or anything, but it was in the background, kinda fuzzy and unfocussed, like in a blurry photo.  I killed a man. _I_ killed a man, willingly, with intent.  And I _wanted_ him dead.  I wanted him as dead as a doornail.  No Marley's ghost here.  No spectre of Vargas wandering around with semi-automatic rifles hanging off of chains of electrodes wrapped around his body...

"Chief?  Blair!"

I swallowed hard and blinked, looking up into Jim's face.  He was sitting on the bed beside me, his hands on my shoulders, lines of worry settled deeply on his face.  I was shaking like a leaf.

"Sorry," I whispered, and took a cleansing breath.  And another.  "I'm okay." I kinda smiled at him, but he didn't smile back.  "It's all right, man.  I just, y'know, _realized_ what I did.  How I..."  The shaking got worse, and it was getting hard to talk because my throat was hot and tight, the muscles stretched and rigid.

Jim glanced at Bright.  "He needs a sedative, _now_.  Otherwise the spasms will become excruciating."  She disappeared out the door.

I looked at Jim - looked _hard_ \- because he knew the answer and I had to know it too. Maybe if I could figure it out I wouldn't feel like this, like there was this big gaping place inside me where something important had been ripped away when I fired that gun.

Jim's frown deepened, and then his arms slipped around me and he was holding me against him, rocking gently.  I didn't cry or anything, just rested against Jim and tried to soak up some of his strength.  He'd been through this, time and time again.  Every time he killed, it took a little more out of him, and I wondered how there was enough of himself left to recognize in the mirror in the morning.  Would I recognize myself?

Someone handed me a cup with a tablet in it.  "Take it," said Jim softly.  "It'll help."  So I swallowed the tablet and rested my forehead against his shoulder, waiting for the pain and shaking to pass.

It eased up after a while, so I pulled away and leaned back against the pillows.  Bright had returned to her seat, and she looked sympathetic.

"Sorry," I said, nudging my knee against Jim's back, a tenuous point of connection between us.  "I've never...  I mean, it's the first time I've actually...  killed someone."

Jim flinched at my words, and rested his hand close to mine.

"I'm sorry you had to do it," she said, "but if it's any consolation, from what I've heard, you did the only thing you could to save all three of your lives."

"Yeah.  I suppose so." I shrugged.  It was one thing to know that intellectually, and another to _feel_ it.

"Do you think you can continue now?"

"Sure."

She was particularly interested in Petersen's words as he shot Lauterbach, but it didn't take long for her to finish her questions.

"I'll be in touch," she finally said, putting away her notebook and standing.  "But it seems fairly straightforward, and I don't anticipate any difficulties."  With a small smile, she left.

We didn't move.  I lay there, my knee propped against Jim's back, while he stared at the closed door.  Suddenly he sighed and turned to me.

"It'll get better, Chief.  I promise."

I nodded.  "Do you mind if we talk about it?  Later, I mean.  Right now I just want to take a nap."

"Sure.  We can talk whenever you want to."  He rubbed my leg and then stood.

"Jim?"

"Yeah?"

I tilted my chin up.  "First, I think I need some reassurance."

"Reassurance, Sandburg?"  He raised his eyebrows.

"Yeah." I tilted my head to the side and looked at him.  "You know, reassurance.  Connection with another human being.  The mutual exchange of comfort-"  He grinned, leaned forward and kissed me, like I was hoping he would.  It didn't last long, but it was a promise, a vow of intent, and that satisfied me.

He pulled away and ran his fingers down the side of my face, smiling slightly.  "Take a nap, Chief.  I'll see about springing us from this joint."

"Great.  I just want to go home."

His fingers trailed over my lips and down my throat, leaving warmth in their wake.  "Home.  Sounds good."

~~~~

"Hey, Sandy, wake up.  We've come to take you home."

I blinked and stretched.  "Megan, Joel!  Hey, it's good to see you two."

Taggart nudged Connor and smiled.  "See?  I told you he'd be happy to see us."

"Yeah, you were right."

I looked around.  "Where's Jim?"

Connor's smile disappeared.  "He went to visit Dr. Morgan.  He wanted to do it before we drove back, and since you were sleeping, he saw the doctor and she allowed him to leave.  We drove him over to the St. Francis Center and will pick him up after you've been discharged."

"We brought you a change of clothes," Taggart said, dumping a shopping bag on my bed.  "Simon said you were a mess when they brought you in, and we figured you wouldn't want to drive home in pajamas."

An hour later Connor was wheeling me to the hospital entrance - Dr. Bryant had given me the nod to go home, as well as a sheaf of prescriptions and instructions for a series of exercises to do for physical therapy.  Joel picked us up, and we swung by to pick up Jim.

Joel and I waited in the car, while Connor went in "to fetch him," as she said.  She was only gone a few minutes, but I was already starting to nod off again.  I think I'd have been pissed off at sleeping so much, if I had the energy to get pissed off in the first place, which was problematical.

The car doors opened.  Megan got into the front, and Jim slid into the back seat next to me. He had on clean clothes, his warm coat, and a knit hat - Joel and Megan must have raided our closets before they left.

"Hey, Jim.  Joel and Megan bribed the doc to let me out," I said, my words slurred.  I blinked at him sleepily.

Jim's smile was gentle and he nudged my shoulder as he settled in.  "That's great, Chief.  Why don't you close your eyes and get some rest?"

I stifled a yawn.  "How's Neil?"

His smile faded, and shadows collected in his eyes.  "Not good.  He's very weak, and in considerable pain.  They have him pretty doped up."

"I'm sorry, man," I whispered, and gave his arm a clumsy pat.

"Yeah," he said with a sigh.

I dozed most of the drive home.  Jim and Joel and Megan talked softly, and I picked up a few words here and there as I drifted in and out of sleep.  Something about police protection for us, and contact with the SNWO, and assistance from a whole list of the alphabet soup agencies: FBI, CIA, NSA...  It was like something out of a TV program, and I wondered if I'd see Mulder and Scully if I opened my eyes.

Jim woke me as the car pulled into a parking space in front of our building.

"C'mon, Sleeping Beauty, we're home."

I managed to pull myself together enough to get upstairs with only a little help - the bits of my body that weren't still sleeping were starting to hurt again.  A squad car was out front, and when we got off the elevator, two uniforms were standing in front of our door.  Connor and Taggart insisted on getting us settled, and then took our prescriptions out to be filled.  Jim tried to object, but Megan gave him this try-it-and-you're-dead-meat look that stopped him in his tracks.

When I feel better, I'll have to ask her how she did that.

I crashed on one of the couches, Jim on the other.  Joel was fussing in the kitchen, making soup, I think, while Megan made a few phone calls.  When she was finished, she sat down and frowned at us.

"All right, you two.  Here's the drill.  You're to stay put with police protection for at least another day or two, until our friends have rounded up the last of Sardana's associates."

"What about Lauterbach?" Jim asked.  "Was he working alone?"

"As far as we can tell, yes.  Vargas and the others had been hired by Sardana.  Lauterbach was the outside expert Sardana brought in to take care of Wallace and Paul, and to capture you, Jim. From what Petersen said in his statement, Lauterbach was fascinated with you, and decided he didn't want Sardana to have you.  When you escaped, he killed Sardana and his colleagues and was going to recapture you."  She took a deep breath.  "Petersen thinks he wanted to use you for mercenary work, with Sandy as a guarantee of your cooperation."

Jim nodded.  "That's what we figured.  Have you had a report from the Seattle PD about the fire?"

"Just the preliminaries.  A group of bodies was found by the door of a conference room, but they're too burnt to ID.  It looks like the door was locked and they were trapped inside."

Jim was quiet for a moment, staring at the floor.  Finally, he raised his eyes.  "Did anything else survive?  Equipment?  Papers?  Anything like that?"

I remembered my journals sitting on a corner of the table.  They were gone.  All those hundreds of hours of observations, of test results, of theories, burnt to a crisp.

Good riddance.

The data were still in my computer, but not for much longer.  As soon as I could, it would all be deleted.  I'd have to get a wipe-disk program to clean it off completely.  And the printouts would have to be burnt as well...

"No.  Lauterbach was thorough."

"Did he have anything on him?  Audio tapes or a notebook?"

She shook her head.  "All he had on him was a fake driver's license and several hundred dollars in bills."

The evidence was gone.

Simon stopped by later, when we were sitting around the table, eating Joel's chicken noodle soup.

"Smells good, Taggart. Got a spare bowl?"  He sat down heavily and ate like a starving man.  "Good," he said when he finally pushed the bowl away.  "I don't remember eating today."

Jim rubbed his forehead and sat back in his chair.  "How long will we need the babysitters, sir?  Have the agencies given you any indication?"

"Probably for only a day or two.  They just want to make sure all the loose ends have been tied up.  The SNWO is being unusually cooperative, apparently, and the FBI and CIA are confident that all the renegade elements will be identified and picked up within twenty-four hours."

"What about Petersen?"  My question seemed to surprise Simon.

"He's in the process of cutting a deal with the DA."  He smiled smugly.  "Since Petersen saved the lives of my best team, I'm exerting a little pressure of my own.  With any luck, he'll get a slap on the wrist."

"Good."

Simon sat back in his chair and crossed his arms.  "They've asked Doreen Wallace to remain under protection for another few days, as well.  She's decided to move back into her house when this is over, and, as she says, 'try to find her life again.'"

Doreen...  I felt a little embarrassed - I hadn't even thought about her since Jim had been kidnapped.

Jim nodded solemnly.  "It's going to be tough for her for a while, but she's a strong woman.  She'll do okay."

"Thanks for the update, Simon," I said, and then yawned unexpectedly. Everyone seemed to take that as a signal to leave.  Within ten minutes, Jim and I were alone.

He crossed his arms and turned to me.  "Bath, Chief."

"Huh?"  What was Jim going on about _now_?

"You need to soak your muscles in a hot bath," he threw over his shoulder as he walked to the bathroom, "otherwise you won't be able to move tomorrow."

"Oh great," I muttered.  Something to look forward to.

"C'mon, Chief, shake a leg.  The water's getting cold."

~~~~

Jim was right, the hot water _did_ feel good.  I stretched in the tub, enjoying the warmth that seeped deep into my joints.  I promised myself that I'd never make another joke about old people going to Florida again - if this was what arthritis felt like, I'd be buying a condo in Boca without a second thought.

My hair was verging on disgusting.  I ran my fingers through it and revised my opinion - it was already disgusting, slipping quickly into repulsive.  Okay, so I'd wash it while I was here.  I scooted forward, tilted my head back, and proceeded to almost drown myself when my ass slipped on the porcelain and I went under.

"Blair?"  Jim poked his head around the door.

I flapped my hands at him as I spewed up a couple of lungfuls of water.  "No problem, Jim.  Just...  Just trying to wash my hair."

"Sandburg, you're a menace to yourself..."  Without even asking me if it was all right, Jim walked in and perched on the side of the tub.

"Jim!  What the-"  I grabbed the washcloth and covered my groin.  No, I _don't_ know why - habit, I guess. 

"You hiding something, Chief?" he said, cocking an eyebrow at me and making a disastrous attempt at a Jamaican accent.  "Got news for you - I've seen it before. Not that I wouldn't like to see it again, you understand," he said judiciously, as he squirted shampoo into his hand, "but the element of surprise has been lost."

What could I do?  I laughed and flung off the washcloth with a flourish.

Oops.  "Sorry, Jim." 

With a sigh, he pulled the washcloth off his shoulder and tossed it into the bath.  So much for that shirt. 

"Can't you stay still for one single _second_?"

"Oh, wow...  Not with you washing my hair like that."  His talented fingers massaged my scalp, sending thin slivers of pleasure down my spine.  "You should take a second job in a spa, man.  I'll bet a lot of people would pay big bucks to be worked over like this."

He snorted, and his hands moved lower.  "I'm not interested in working over a bunch of spoiled, pampered, rich people."  He paused and narrowed his eyes.  God, I felt like he was diving straight into me...  "I'm only interested in one guy."

"Oh, yeah?"  I don't _think_ it came out as a squeak, but I wasn't really sure.  I raised my chin.  "Anyone I know?"

"Maybe...  You know a mouthy, hairy little guy, smart as a whip, so brave it sometimes takes my breath away, with a heart as big as the world?"

Oh, man...  I couldn't move - all I could do was lie there and stare at him, feel his soapy hands rub slickly over my shoulders and chest, and try to remember to breathe.

"Nope," I said, forcing the words out of my parched throat.  "Doesn't sound like anyone I know."

He smiled then, and cupped his hand around the side of my face.  "The water's getting cold.  Let's get you rinsed off and out of here."

Warm, reasonably comfortable, and still feeling completely pole-axed, I sat on the couch and he toweled my hair dry.  Yeah, that's what I said.  Jim Ellison, ex-soldier, cop, sentinel of the big city, so _not_ a hairdresser, was sitting behind me, gently rubbing my hair dry.

Welcome to the Twilight Zone.

Despite that massive injection of weirdness into my life, I was falling asleep.  The third time my head lolled to the side, Jim put down the towel and dragged me to my feet.

"Bed time, Sandburg."

He wrapped his arm around me and coaxed me forward, then abruptly stopped.  I swayed against him and his arm tightened, supporting me.  Jim was staring at the stairs in front of us, then turned to me, his question in his eyes.

Oh.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.  I was touched and thrilled and terrified.

So I yawned.  Big.  A real jaw-cracker.  Who says romance is dead?

That seemed to galvanize Jim into movement, because he suddenly chuckled and then stepped toward the stairs.  I was right there beside him, smiling to myself.  Sharing Jim's bed was nothing new.  Hell, I'd slept with the guy for the past few nights - it was becoming a habit.  A good habit, like flossing regularly or changing the oil in the car every six months, but I knew I was going to enjoy it a lot more than either of those chores.

Of course, that was assuming that I could stay awake to enjoy _anything_.

Jim helped me upstairs, tucked me into bed, gave me my meds and a pat on the cheek, and I promptly fell asleep.  I was too tired to even _think_ about doing anything interesting, much less manage the motor coordination necessary to actually do it.

Still, as Scarlett O'Hara said, tomorrow is another day.

~~~~

Something felt good.  No, more than good...  Something felt fantastic.  Oh yeah...

As my brain struggled to catalog what was happening, my body was just going with the flow, enjoying the respite from pain.

Okay.  Preliminary report.  There's pressure on my cock, which is pleased with the attention and is plumping up like a Ball Park frank inside my sweatpants.  It's really interested in participating in whatever's going on, and twitches when the pressure turns to a firm caress through the thick material.

Gentle puffs of warm air tickled my neck, then lips nuzzled and teased.  A tongue traced the edge of my ear and I shivered.  There was a soft chuckle.

Strong fingers kneaded my ass, creeping between my legs to brush enticingly against my balls.  I pulled one leg up a little for easier access, and the chuckle sounded again.

"G'morning, Chief."

"Don't _stop_, dammit!"

He laughed, that silly 'heh heh' that suddenly made my mouth dry, and then kissed my neck.  "Okay."

He didn't stop until I came into his fist with a muffled shout, my hips jerking and pumping wildly.  He waited until I was finished and completely relaxed before he pulled out his fingers, but I shivered and moaned at the sensation.

"Did it hurt?"

I rolled over and looked at him through half-open eyes, then smiled slowly.  "Nah."

He mirrored my smile with one of his own.  I raised my hand and traced the contours of his face with a fingertip.  Down the smooth forehead, along the vulnerable hollow of temple, across the strong bridge of cheekbone.

"My turn," I said, running my hand across his hip to the front of his boxers.  He blushed when I felt the dampness there.

"Too late."

I gave his soft cock a gentle squeeze.  "Next time, Ellison, _I_ get to drive, okay?"

"You sure you're up to it?"  There was a twinkle in his eyes.

"Yeah, I'm sure."  I leaned forward and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.  "I'm going to take a shower while I can still move.  You coming?"

"I just _did_, Chief."

"Ha ha." I rolled away and sat up.  "Jim?"

"Yeah?"  He stretched lazily in the bed and looked at me.  Damn, even with bruises that look like the remnants of a bad acid trip, cuts enough for an extra in a slasher movie and as bald as Jean-Luc Picard, the man is incredible.

"Thanks for everything, man."

He frowned and pulled himself up on one elbow.  "Blair?"

I sat back down.  "What is it?  What's the matter?"

He shifted, suddenly tense.  "The thanks go both ways, Sandburg. I _know_ that."

"Hey, I never meant to imply otherwise."  I scooted forward and knelt in front of him.  "We're a good team, Jim.  I mean, yeah, we're both used to working alone and we do okay that way, but together we're more than the sum of our parts.  And that's fantastic, 'cause the way I feel about you..."  I shrugged and fiddled with a corner of the sheet.  "Well, the prospect of being alone again looks pretty crappy compared to being with you."

With a choked laugh, he covered my hand with his and squeezed gently. His fingers were cold. "Since when did you become a mind-reader, Merlin?"

I raised my eyes to meet his.  "Since a certain ex-military, highly decorated cop let me into his life."

There was a long pause, and then he smiled unsteadily.  "One of these days, I'm going to discover how you manage to find just the right words to get to me, Chief."

"No way, Jim.  It's a trade secret."

He leaned forward and brushed his lips against mine, but pulled away before I could make things interesting.  "Meds, then shower," he said.  "Your window of opportunity is closing fast, and I want you to eat some breakfast before things start hurting again."

I made it through breakfast, but Jim had to help me onto the couch afterward.  I was bored already, and tired of sleeping.  I tried to read, but the words blurred on the page, and my old glasses were no help. I'd have to dig out my new prescription and get another pair when I could move again. The TV was a wasteland, as usual, and Jim groaned when I put on some music.  I want to know what's _wrong_ with the Squirrel Nut Zippers?  Thank god Rafe and H stopped by for a few minutes and brought us some lunch - I was starting to go stir crazy.

The big news was that they had identified the hairs Jim had found at the gallery and in Wallace's car as Lauterbach's, and Dr. Harding and the bartender had confirmed that he was the man they had seen with Wallace and Paul.  As far as the Department was concerned, those cases were closed.

Simon sent word that the clean-up was going well, and that our babysitters would probably be called off tomorrow.  Jim seemed pleased, and that was cool with me.

After Rafe and H left, I zonked out for a while, like I had any choice.  I _hate_ meds.  Anyhow, the phone woke me up, even though Jim got it before it could ring more than once.

"Ellison."  He paused and his voice softened.  "Hi.  Is there any-"  He stopped abruptly and his face froze over.  Oh, shit.  Bad news.  With an effort, he unclenched his jaw.  "I'm sorry.  Very sorry.  Do you know-"  Another pause, and he nodded.  "Okay.  I'll call and get the details.  Thanks for letting me know.  Bye..."

He turned off the phone and stood still, looking around the room indecisively.

"Who was it?"

His eyes tracked over to me and he blinked.  "Cynthia."

"Bad news, huh?"  I didn't even have to ask.  I could see it in his eyes.

"Neil slipped into a coma after I left yesterday, and died early this morning."

I hauled myself up so I was sitting and held out my hand.  "I'm really sorry, Jim.  C'mere..."

He took an awkward step, then another, jerked along like a marionette.  He stopped in front of me and I tugged him down onto the couch.

"When's the funeral?"

"Day after tomorrow.  I'll call the funeral home and get the details."  He stared out the windows, his hand holding mine tightly.

"How's Cynthia doing?"

He shrugged.  "Okay, I think.  She sounded calm."

"You wanna talk about it?"

He looked at me, a small crease forming between his eyebrows.  "Talk?"  With a shake of his head, he pulled my hand until I was settled against his side, his arms wrapped around me.

"It's a good release to talk about things," I said, fidgeting until I was comfortable.  "Otherwise they can sit inside and fester."

"I'll talk when I'm ready, Chief.  Promise."  He dropped a quick kiss on my forehead.  "But just not right now, okay?"

"Okay."  Normally I would have pressed the issue more, but we were still exhausted, emotionally and physically, from our captivity.  A delay wouldn't hurt.  And besides, I had Jim's promise that we _would_ talk about it, and I'd make sure he honored that promise.  It might take a while - years, probably - before he worked through Bud, Neil and Cynthia's betrayal, not to mention all the damage created by his father's words.  But I know my Jim; it'll be hard, but he'll make it, and I'll be there to help him through it, good times and bad.

We sat there for an hour, maybe two.  I don't know if it was Jim's body heat, or if I was just more relaxed, or if the meds were particularly effective right then, but the pain receded for a while.  I appreciated the respite.

~~~~

In bed that night, after a warm bath and one of Jim's special massages had left me as boneless as a jellyfish and hornier than an eighteen-year-old in military school, I rolled over until I was propped up on Jim's chest, looking down at him.

"My turn to drive tonight, man."  He mirrored my smile, and then chuckled as I set to work.

I'm pleased to say that I wiped that smile off his face in less than a minute.  You know, it's a real rush to have Jim Ellison flat on his back under you, sweating, panting, eyes fluttering, mouth gaping, chest heaving, yadda yadda...  I was getting off on the power trip almost as much as Jim was getting off on what I was doing to him.

Life was good.

The only time I had to rethink my strategy was when I slid my hand under his ass.  Whoa, that made him tense up - understandably so.  It didn't take long for me to recapture the ground I had lost, and then to dangle him over the edge for a while, not letting go just yet.

It wasn't until he finally called out "Blair" in such a pathetic, strangled voice that I took pity on him and let him come.  Which he did.  In abundance.  It reminded me of those weird, anatomically correct fountains in Europe.

I let him rest for a couple of minutes, then cleaned us up enough to pass muster on a dark night in a rainstorm.  Hey, I didn't hear Jim complaining.  Nope, he was sprawled across the bed, flushed and winded, his thighs and stomach quivering a little with the aftershocks.  Bacchus, post-bacchanal.

Good job, Sandburg.

I settled down beside him and propped my head in my hand, just looking at him.  Eventually, he took a deep, shuddering breath and turned to me, reaching out with his finger and drawing complex patterns on my face, throat and chest.

When he dragged his fingertip across my lips and I opened my mouth enough to capture it and gnaw it lightly, he suddenly attacked me with an intensity that bordered on desperation.  I was caressed, fondled, kneaded, stroked, kissed, nibbled and licked to within an inch of my sanity.  Every nerve in my body was taken for a ride, thrilled to be barreling along at ninety miles an hour without brakes.

Of course I came.  Hell, I practically exploded.  When I was finished, bits of me were littered all over the bed, intent on becoming one with the sheets.  It took a while for my brain to come back on line and for me to scrape myself back together, but Jim held me patiently until I did, his touch calming.

"Man..."  I twisted around until I could see his face.  "If you're going to completely fry all my circuits, could you warn me in advance?  I want to make sure I've contacted my lawyer and my papers are in order."

He snorted.  "Same here, Chief."

We got cleaned up and settled back into bed.  Jim turned onto his side and threw an arm across me, tucking his chin onto my shoulder and pulling me tightly against him.  He murmured something into my ear, but I couldn't understand what he said.

"Jim?"

"Mmmmm?"

"Love you, man."

"Love you, too, Blair."

"Good."

He chuckled and gave me a squeeze.  "Yeah.  Very good."

~~~~

The days dragged. Our babysitters were called off.  People dropped by - Simon, Megan and Joel pretty much every day, Rafe and H almost as often.

We made it to Neil's funeral.  Jim didn't want me to go - I'd had a rough night - but I was damned if he was going to go alone.  Fortunately, it was in Cascade, not Seattle, so I took my meds, and we put on our funeral clothes and drove over.

The chapel was packed, and we slipped into seats near the rear.  Jim was silent through the entire service, not even mouthing the words to the prayers.  He just sat beside me, glacially still, almost not breathing.  His eyes never left Neil's coffin, not even during the eulogies.  He shivered, only once, when Cynthia rose and spoke of Neil's love of teaching.

When we filed out, Cynthia hugged him tightly, tears in her eyes.  She murmured something and Jim nodded.

"I am, too," he said softly.  "More than you know."

"Will you call me soon?"

He paused.  "Yes.  When I can."

I stayed in the truck at the cemetery - the pain was building again, and no way could I walk over to the burial plot.  Jim stood at the edge of the drive, watching intently, but as soon as the coffin disappeared into the ground, he returned and we drove off quickly.

"You gonna call her?" I asked.

Jim shrugged.  "Maybe."

"You should, you know."

"I'll call when I'm ready, Sandburg," he ground out.

I twisted around in my seat. "Hey, don't take it out on me, man.  I'm not the bad guy here."

He stared out the windshield, jaw tight, fingers white-knuckled around the steering wheel.  His head jerked once, a quick up-and-down.  "Yeah, I know."

"So?"

"I'll call her, Chief," he said with a sigh.  "Soon.  You satisfied?"

I reached out and ran my hand down his arm.  "Yeah.  Always."

That coaxed a chuckle from him.

I shucked my jacket as soon as we got into the door and tugged my tie off as I landed on the couch.  "How about going upstairs for a nap?  You look like you could use one, and I'm incapable of doing anything but drooling into a pillow right now."

It was an inspired idea.  Both of us felt a lot better after three hours of sleep, my meds seemed to kick in again, and we actually managed to sit at the table and eat dinner together like human beings.  I had a bath after dinner, hair courtesy of Monsieur James, who then insisted on giving me another massage.  Like I would say 'no' to probably the most sensual experience I'd ever had.  It was even better than Fiji.

Jim is nothing if not thorough.  He would always start the massage at my temples and work down my front to my toes, then flop me over and move up my back, ending up with a scalp rub that should be declared illegal in at least thirty-five states and a couple of territories.

I was puddled on the bed as he worked his way up the backs of my thighs, his fingers finding every ache and sore spot and wrestling them into submission.  Even though my body was about as limp as a body can get without actually being dead, my mind was working full speed.  Okay, my libido, then.

I wanted Jim.  Yeah, I know that much had been pretty obvious for a while, but suddenly I knew I wanted something _new_, at least for me.  I wanted Jim to... well, to put his cock where the sun don't shine.  And I wanted him to do it _now_.

But I'd settle for soon.

He had moved up to my ass, touching me intimately, but not intimately enough, if you catch my drift.  I twitched my butt muscles and he immediately stopped rubbing, but he left his hands cupped over my cheeks.

"What's the matter, Blair?"

I twisted my head and shoulders around enough to glare at him.

"The problem, Ellison, is that your cock is _there_," I pointed to his jeans,  "and my ass is _here_," I continued, wiggling my butt, "and they aren't together."

He blinked and pursed his lips, like he was trying to work out what I was saying.  "I don't understand."

I sighed.  God, the man could be so _dense_ sometimes...  Okay.  In words of two syllables or less.

"Jim, if your cock isn't in my ass in half-an-hour, there's going to be hell to pay."

Silence.  The hands disappeared.

Oh, shit.  What the hell did you just say, Sandburg?

"You really want me to-"

Like I said, dense.  Pure concrete.  I twisted around a little more.  "Yes.  I do.  If you want to."  I rolled onto my back, suddenly wondering if I'd made a mistake worse than the French relying on the Maginot line, and started back-pedaling.  "I never asked, because I didn't realize...  I mean, I just figured out that I wanted to do this in the first place, but if the idea makes you queasy or anything then we don't have to even think about it."

"First, breathe, Sandburg," he said and then grinned and reached down to cup my cock.  "It's a great idea; it just took me by surprise."  Rubbing my cock gently, Jim grew solemn.  "I'll have to make sure you don't regret your decision."

Regret it?  Not in _this_ lifetime.

We made the deadline - just.  Every time I'd take a break from panting and squirming and start complaining about him understanding the difference between 'fingers' and 'cock,' he'd kiss me somewhere and repeat that the better the preparation, the more successful the outcome.  He sounded like he was planning a camping trip.  Well, he _sounded_ that way, but I could tell he was really turned on.  Sure, the fact that when he shucked his jeans his cock practically sprang across the room was a dead giveaway, but it was more the way he stroked and kissed me and the soft words he spoke to me.

Then he fussed with how I was lying, insisting that I roll onto my side so that he could spoon up behind me. There was the inevitable delay with the condom, but finally, _finally_, I could feel him position himself.

"Ready?"

"Clock's ticking, Jim," I snarled.  "You're running out of time."

He didn't reply.  There was a building pressure and my body instinctively tensed for a minute, but his hands caressed the tension away. I suddenly felt him inside.

Oh, wow.

He took it slow, and I vacillated between being grateful and getting pissed off.  The sensation was different from fingers - more intense, more _there_.  Not bad, just... weird.

Jim grunted softly into my ear, panting short, choppy breaths as he pressed forward.  I lay still, prevented from moving much by Jim's grip on my hip, just experiencing the moment.

With a harsh groan, Jim suddenly stopped moving, and I could feel him pressed tightly against my thighs, ass and back.  There was a hitch in his breathing, and a snuffle.  I pulled his hand up from my hip and kissed each finger, then cradled it to my chest, my fingers wrapped around his, like he was wrapped around me.  A Moebius strip, kinda.  Two sides, one whole, eternal, never-ending...

Then he moved, and rational thought flew out the door.  Actually, pretty much all higher-level cognition stopped, and we functioned solely on our shark-brains.  It was all immediate sensation and messy pleasure, sweat and grunting and sharp jabs of desire that lingered in the gut, spilling out onto the sheets with a sound like death.

Later, clean and dry, with muscles lax from remembered pleasure, we lay curled up together in the bed.

"Blair?"

"Yeah?"

"You sure you're okay?"

I shifted around until I could see his eyes and answered the question he didn't ask.  "It was great, man.  The way you made me feel, the connection, the intensity...  Everything."

"Good."  He nodded and smoothed a thumb over my eyebrow.  "It'll go both ways, Chief.  I promise. But," he grimaced slightly and lowered his eyes, "not just yet.  Okay?"

"Hey!"  I cupped his face in my hands until he looked at me again.  "I'm not on a schedule, here. _If_ you decide you want to some time, great.  If you decide you don't _ever_ want to, fine.  I'm not going to abandon ship over it, Jim.  It's fun, yeah, but we're both intelligent, creative guys - we can come up with plenty of other things to do together, right?"

A smile ghosted the corners of his mouth.  "Right."

I settled back against him, enjoying his warmth.  "Y'know, I had this idea.  We'll need to use the kitchen table, the ironing board, and, if I've done the calculations correctly, a twenty pound bag of flour as a counterweight-"

"Not a chance, Chief," he growled.  "No flour."  There was a pause.  "We'll use rice instead.  It's easier to sweep up."

God, I love that man.

~~~~

It took over a week before I really started feeling better.  Jim was going in to the station for a couple of hours a day - just desk work, but it made him feel like he was getting back to normal, and that's important to Jim.  His bruises were fading, the cuts healing, and he had a quarter-inch of fuzz on his head.  It was kinda cute, but I couldn't wait for it to grow a bit more - it would be less of a reminder of when we'd been through.

I'd been out once or twice after the funeral, but not for long.  Everything exhausted me, even if I had a nap right before I left.  But my strength was slowly returning, and Jim kept repeating that I'd have to be patient.  Sometimes I really hate it when he's right.

We talked a lot.  Yeah, even Jim.  We talked about our pasts, our plans for the future, what we'd have for dinner that night. The big conversations, the really important ones, happened at night, in bed, when it was dark and we were wrapped around each other.  I got him to open up a little about his feelings about Neil's death, and he admitted that he felt better afterward. It didn't fix anything - really, it was just the first step on that particular journey, but it was a _good_ first step. 

We were dozing one night, almost ten days after we had returned home, my chest plastered to Jim's back, my arms surrounding him, and I knew I had to ask.

I kissed the back of his neck and whispered.  "What was it like when you killed for the first time?"

He stilled, hardly breathing, for a long minute.  Then he turned in my arms and held me close, his lips brushing my forehead, cheeks, and jaw.  With a sigh he pulled back a little, his fingers slowly combing through my hair.

"My first time.  He was a guard for a...  Well, it doesn't matter.  He was a young kid, maybe seventeen or eighteen, in a ragged excuse for a uniform, with a crappy rifle, unlucky enough to be stuck guarding the darkest, most remote corner of the... installation.  I couldn't risk a shot, so I strangled him.  I didn't really think about it while it was happening.  I had a job to do, and I did it to the best of my ability."  He paused.  "It wasn't until he went limp and I smelled the mess he'd made in his pants that I understood what I'd just done.  I'd killed a kid.  Things got busy for a while, and I didn't think about it until we were back on the transport, headed home.  I wondered what his name was, if anyone would notify his parents that he was dead, or if they'd just think he was off making his fortune."

I waited to see if he'd continue, but he didn't.  "And if you hadn't killed him?  If he'd been able to give an alarm, or get off a shot?"

"Then I probably wouldn't be having this conversation, and the eleven other men on my team would be dead, too.  Not to mention the scores of villagers who were being terrorized, and hundreds of others throughout the distribution chain..."  He rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling.

"It's a matter of balance, Chief.  At least, to me it is.  One life balanced against many others.  I don't like killing.  Sometimes..."  He chuckled drily, without a trace of humor.  "...sometimes I feel like every time I take another life, I lose a piece of myself.  I keep expecting to wake up one day and find that there's no more _me_ left."  He shrugged.  "But I have a job to do.  People to protect.  If that's the price I have to pay to do it, then that's the way it is."

"What really bothers me," I said softly, "is not that I've killed someone, but that I _don't_ regret it.  I always thought if it ever came down to it, I'd feel guilt and remorse, but I don't. I'd shoot Vargas all over again if I could prevent what he did to you, or save you a little of the pain."

Jim took a huge, shaky breath and grabbed me, squeezing me tightly.  "Thanks, Chief.  I didn't know I had a champion."

I squeezed him back.  "Just like you're mine, man.  Exactly the same."

~~~~

Epilogue

 

When we got back to the station, Simon called me into his office.

"Did you two stop by the cemetery?"

"Yeah.  Jim hasn't been back since the funeral.  I think he wanted to make his peace with Neil."

Simon nodded, and glanced through his office windows at Jim.  "How's he doing?"  He turned and glared at me.  "Honestly, Sandburg."

"Pretty good," I shrugged.  "He's talked to Cynthia a couple of times, and that's helped.  He was glad to see Petersen's deal with the DA go through.  Honestly, Simon, I think he's back to normal."

Simon snorted.  "As normal as anything is around you two."

"Hey, normality is greatly overrated.  We do okay, Jim and me."

"Yeah."  He eyed me speculatively.  "You do okay."  Then he jerked his head toward the door.  "Go on.  He needs you."

Truer words were never spoken, Captain.  And the reverse is just as true - I need him, more than you'll ever know.

That night, after a quick dinner and a couple of hours spent quietly together - me doing some research for my new dissertation topic, and Jim immersed in the latest book on the Beat poets - we closed our books at the same time and got ready for bed.

"Blair?"  Jim's voice was muffled in my hair.

"Hmmmm?"  I was busy nibbling on his neck.

"Remember the first time I entered you?"  That's Jim for you.  He hates to use the word 'fuck' when it comes to describing our sex life.

"Of course.  It was great, just like it's been great every time since then."  I moved from his neck to his chest, and he shivered.

"I promised that one day..."  There was something in his voice that made me stop my explorations and look at him.  "Will you make love to me?"

Even though I was expecting his request, the words made my breath catch in my throat.  Jim Ellison, asking me to make love to him.  As if there was anything else in the world that I'd rather do.

I smiled at him tenderly.  "Yeah, Jim, I'll make love to you."

 

The End


End file.
